


The Competition

by CardiganDiary



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Academic competition, Cadet Spock, F/M, Oxford, Pre-Academy Uhura
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-04-12 11:41:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 90,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4477994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CardiganDiary/pseuds/CardiganDiary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of the cardinal rules of any competition: Don't fall in love with your opponent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

For the first time that she could remember, Nyota Uhura didn’t have any words.  She had been standing outside of the lavatories (thoughtfully identified as “Ladies,” “Gents,” and “Others” as they had been for centuries, as if someone had known that the ancient building would someday play host to species so diverse that two genders would be insufficient) in a dangerously crowded pub trying to puzzle out how she was going to make her way back to her table and the rest of the Oxford Linguistics Team without acquiring some sort of intimate knowledge of every person in the place and had finally decided that trying to plan out a route ahead of time was pointless. 

Old Bookbinders wasn’t usually the party destination of choice for Oxford’s student population, which is why she liked the place.  The ancient pub was small, with the bar running along the side of a narrow, rectangular-shaped room, and the more open adjoining room housing most of the tables.  Capacity was usually 40 to 60 people depending on how many people crowded around the available tables and bar.  The walls were built at odd angles, tables were separated by makeshift panels of stained glass, and the ceilings low with exposed timbers.  Ephemera covered the walls, some truly noteworthy and some just strange.  Nyota’s favorite display was of radio receivers from the 20th century that served as the current sound system, but she was also taken with the decorations on the ceiling, one of them a giant word puzzle, another a working miniature reproduction of an old Earth locomotive chugging its way around on its track suspended around the top of the bar. 

There were old-fashioned photographs, an entire wall covered in drink coasters, bottles, signs, old newspaper clippings, a light display made out of PADDs that flashed in time to whatever music was playing, and more than one flat surface was covered in antiquated clocks, none of which displayed the correct time.  None of the furniture matched, and a couple of the chairs looked like it was only a matter of time before they ate someone.  The lighting was dim and comfortable, and the room was warm, making it a refuge from the mist and fog that were typical of Oxford in the middle of March.  The beer was plentiful and the food, while not winning any awards, was a step above the usual bar fare.

But tonight was the exception to the rule.  Tonight, the Oxford Linguistics Society hosted its unofficial welcome party for the competitors at the annual Oxford Linguistics Invitational, and the pub was filled to the rafters with students from universities all over the world.  And not just human.  At least half a dozen other species were represented that Nyota could see.  People with a love of language and the science that went into the study of it. 

She stood at the far end of the two-room tavern just outside of the lavs, listening to the symphony of words that spun around her, temporarily transfixed by the mix of both Terran and non-Terran languages: standard Federation English, Arabic, Japanese, Vulcan, Low Orion, Andorii, and a stunningly funny attempt at Klingon (was that an Irish accent?), as well as a couple of languages she couldn’t identify. 

As she stalled, basking in the conversations around her, Nyota wondered, not for the first time, if she had made a mistake choosing to study mathematics instead of linguistics.  She quickly reminded herself that her time at Oxford was a means to an end, and that she would have more than her fill of xenolinguistics when she began her studies at Starfleet Academy in a year and a half.  Her skill with pure and applied mathematics would only benefit her when she took the entrance exams.  And her extracurricular activities like the linguistics society and being a member of the society’s competition team kept her involved.

But she’d never get the chance to pursue the long-term goals of deep space exploration, making first contact, and hearing and translating previously unknown languages she’d had since she was 11 if she didn’t get started on her short-term objective of crossing the crowded room in front of her.  The bar stretched along the room to her left, obscured by people competing for the attention of the barmen working that night.  Camped out at the very end of the bar farthest away from her, Nyota could see part of the team from Starfleet Academy; their red uniforms a bright splash in the dim light. 

Tables lined the wall to her right, filled with students, those without seats hovering around the perimeters.  Most of the sizeable audience around the tables was due to a heated debate raging on linguistic determinism, a hypothesis that the extent of thought was bound by the limitations of a given language.  The theory had long been discredited but it kept enjoying renewed popularity with every new pre-warp civilization and language discovered.   The spectators were vocal in both their appreciation and derision at the arguments presented and their opinions of the participants.  Audience involvement was passionate, with rebuttal and attack coming from all corners.  From what Nyota gathered, all involved appeared to be having a grand time.  Another table had discovered the supply of old parlor games and was heatedly engaged in a game involving a set of five dice, proper strategy, and knowledge of probabilities. 

This left a narrow strip of floor between the bar on one wall and the tables along the other leading to the more spacious seating area where Nyota could just make out her flatmate, Sophie, through the crowd.  Well, at least she had a visual. 

She stepped out of the alcove where she’d been standing and into the crowd.  She slipped through the press of bodies, trying to disrupt the crowd as little as possible with her slow passage across the room.  To her left, a barmaid with a heavily loaded tray sailed confidently into the sea of people, which parted to let her pass.

“Coming through!” the server called, and Nyota altered her course to follow in her wake across the room.  

Her progress was much quicker now that she was drafting off the barmaid, who appeared to be clearing the way with little more than attitude and the fact that she was transporting alcohol.   Nyota was just squeezing between the red-clad contingent from the Starfleet Academy and the ever more hotly contested dice game when her luck ran out. 

One of the players leapt to his feet as his opponent rolled a seemingly impossible five of a kind with a single toss.  He blindly shoved his chair behind him, causing the audience who had gathered there to push back to give him space.  In the rush, a girl who hadn’t moved fast enough tripped over the moving chair, sprawled into the person next to her, and sent his drink flying, further scattering the crowd. 

Despite her caution, Nyota was pushed roughly towards the bar, and she stumbled gracelessly into the nearest cadet.  She was so startled, she lost her footing and would have fallen if not for the warm hands that reached out to grip her bare arms just above the elbows.  The last coherent thought she had as he touched her was how hot the cadet’s hands were.  And then, nothing.

The interwoven threads of language and numbers that constantly played in the background of Nyota’s mind dissolved, and her perception of the world went alarmingly quiet.  Her breath quickened, and she pulled away in a panic from the cadet who continued to steady her, instinctively looking for a way to escape.  But the young man held her in place, his fingers tightening on her arms.

“Please, calm yourself,” the cadet said.

His voice was soft.  Too soft for Nyota to have easily heard through all the noise around her, but every word was clear, as if they were alone in a silent room.  Nyota drew in a deep, steady breath at the sound of the cadet’s voice, at the sound of his words, and slowly exhaled.  She raised her eyes to meet his, and silently wished for the cadet to keep speaking, to keep giving her the words that she was struggling to find.

Nyota dimly registered the dark, upswept brows and pointed ears that marked the cadet as Vulcan and instead focused on eyes that were softer than she would have expected and that were surprisingly human.

“Are you injured?” he asked, his tone vaguely inquisitive, and to her horror, Nyota realized that he expected a response.  She closed her eyes and drew in another breath, trying to slow her heartbeat.

“No,” she said, her voice barely audible.  She wasn’t sure where the word had come from, but she was thankful that that she hadn’t just stood there, dumb and gaping.  “Thank you.  Excuse me.” 

Nyota took another step away from the cadet, and his grip on her arms slowly relaxed, releasing her now that he knew she was steady on her feet.  She ducked her head down and slipped back into the crowd, this time not caring whether her way was clear or if she was pushing her way through.  The relief she felt when she reached her table was nearly overwhelming, and she was torn between collapsing in her chair and gulping the remains of her cider or grabbing her coat and running for the door.

As the host team for the competition, Nyota’s flatmate, Sophie, and the other members of the Oxford linguistics team had been holding court at their table in the center of the pub, and it was no surprise that three or four young men were hovering around Sophie like bees buzzing around a flower.  Sophie was laughing, her face tilted up and catching the light, her skin glowing, and her pink hair a fuzzy halo, like a dandelion on a golden, sunny afternoon.  The team’s captain, Charlie Spencer, was engrossed in conversation with a young Andorian male wearing the colors of MIT.  Naresh and Peter were well into their often-repeated, three-drink attempt to translate a piece of nonsense poetry by Lewis Carroll from standard Federation English to Welsh and then to English again.  They never quite made it through, often laughing too hard in their attempts to find suitable Welsh equivalents for nonsense words that didn’t really exist.

When Sophie saw Nyota making her way through the crowd, her smile melted into mock exasperation.

“Well, that took a dog’s age,” she said, her broad, slightly slurring tones betraying her south London upbringing.  “Please tell me you were having it off with some goggy tosser you’re never going to see again.”

Nyota rolled her eyes as she took her coat and scarf from the back of the chair she had abandoned nearly an hour earlier.  She leaned down, raising her voice to be heard over the din, and hoping that she’d have something to say.  “I’ll see you at home.”

Finally tearing her attention fully away from her harem, Sophie looked up at her friend, her brow furrowed.

“Are you alright?” she asked, concern tingeing her voice.

Nyota shrugged on her coat and wound her scarf around her neck.  She offered Sophie a weak smile and yanked her hat out of her pocket.

“Tired.”  Nyota pulled her had down over her ears and waved goodbye to Naresh and Peter.  Charlie, as expected, didn’t notice when she slipped back into the crowd and headed out the door.

-oOo-

The ten-minute walk from Bookbinders to the flat Nyota shared with Sophie was chilly, but other than a light veil of mist, the night was mercifully dry.  She walked up to the second floor and pressed her hand to the entry sensor, letting herself in.  She hung her coat, scarf, and hat on one of the coat hooks that lined the wally by the door, pulled off her boots, and programmed the heat up a few degrees.

Nyota considered what to do next.  Her thought processes were unaffected, her mind spinning in its own form of mentalese, but she was still having trouble finding her words.  She paced across the living area, stopping in front of the windows that overlooked the courtyard at the back of the building.  It had started to rain just after she had made it inside, and fat, wet drops spattered against the glass.

She squeezed her eyes closed and rubbed the spot between her eyebrows that creased when she frowned, feeling the two vertical lines that indented her skin when she was pensive or angry or frustrated.  She remembered hearing somewhere that they were called “I want” lines.  And she wanted so badly right now.  Wanted her words back, wanted the comfort and confidence that they gave her.  She wanted to call her parents, but it was the middle of the night in Kitui, and she didn’t want to worry them.  Without words, she wasn’t even sure what she would be able to tell them.

She went into the kitchen and poured a glass of water from the bottle they kept in the fridge and carried it to her room.  Her problem wasn’t going to get solved tonight, and now that she was home, her body felt heavy and sluggish.  Nyota stripped off her clothes and climbed into bed, still wearing her underwear and socks.  If she wasn’t herself in the morning, she’d make Sophie take her to the medical clinic.

She closed her eyes, only then realizing that the bedside lamp that had come on automatically when she entered her room still glowed.  She turned her head and stared at the offending source of light and thought about shoving it off the table onto the floor.  With a frustrated huff, Nyota rolled over and slapped the light’s manual switch off, sinking the room into darkness.  She collapsed back against her pillow, closed her eyes, and fell asleep to silence.


	2. Chapter 2

_In the dream, she is ten years old (but she would make sure that anyone who asked knew that she would be eleven in less than two months). She knows that even though this is not her house, she is home nonetheless, and this is what tells her she's dreaming. Because she is ten and she has only been coming to the home of her mother's colleague to be tutored by her husband in Modern Vulcan for the past eight weeks, she has not yet begun to consider Torval's well-ordered teaching space as home. That day is still more than a year off._

_She has taken this new study seriously, sensing that this is a privilege that would not have been offered if it had not been felt that she would show appropriate respect for the subject and Torval's time. She feels very grown up working here while Torval's two sons work independently on individual monitors. But not today, and Nyota knows, as you somehow know in the way of dreams, that today she will run home in a desperate rush to beat the tears that she can't control and threaten to break like a storm. She also knows that this will happen later because now, it is vitally important that she understand today's lesson more clearly than any other so far._

_She is reading out loud from a text of ancient Vulcan history. The story describes the rampage of a warrior during the time of the Fury of Vulcan and how he killed nearly 100 people in his own village before dying himself. Nyota thinks the story is sad and horrible and tries her best to portray that in her reading, not realizing that this is her mistake. She is not even halfway through the passage before Torval interrupts her._

_"That is not correct."  He looks evenly at her under sharply angled brows, his sandy brown hair worn long and tied neatly at the back of his neck with only the gracefully pointed tips of his ears visible, a break in Vulcan tradition that Nyota never noticed as a child. He recites the passage from memory, and Nyota, surprised at his correction, gives him her full attention._

_"Begin again."_

_Nyota is careful with her second reading to try and match Torval's pronunciation as closely as she is able given her brief exposure to the language, but he interrupts her again._

_"You are distorting the meaning of the passage." His voice is not unkind, but neither is it encouraging._

_"But T'Kahr, I recited the passage the same way you did."_

_"While you may have pronounced the words acceptably, given the limitations of the human vocal apparatus, the meaning of the passage is distorted by your improper emotional interpretation," Torval explains. "It is not enough to merely understand the words and pronounce them within satisfactory limits. You must also understand how a society uses its language to achieve the most effective communication."_

_Nyota feels her face heat and her heart beat faster. She steals a glance at Torval's sons, Tamor and Stivan, as they work on the other side of the room. She is relieved that they have not noticed their father's criticism. And for the first time she sees a third boy, working a series of complex equations on the wall display across from her seat at the work table. He is a few years older than she, and she does not recognize him. The stylus he holds is temporarily still, and Nyota knows that he has heard and absorbed every word of Torval's censure._

_She understands that her teacher is telling her the truth. Not a child's truth. An adult's truth because in this one thing, she is not a child._

_In her memory, she begins the passage again. Her frustration colors every word she utters. Torval stops her and ends their lesson early, which prompts a desperate rush home in an attempt to reach the privacy of her bedroom before the tears that have been hovering around the edges of her mood all afternoon fall._

_But in the dream, she never reads the passage a third time because the boy on the other side of the table turns away from the wall display and speaks the words in a soft voice full of a neutral gravity she has never heard before, not even when Torval demonstrates proper intonation. And the story of the man who laid waste to a village with a single-minded rage becomes more real and wrenching to her spoken in this unaffected manner than any of the theatrics she was so convinced were needed to express the full tragedy of the tale._

_Nyota looks up and sees that the Vulcan boy has completed the lengthy equation he has been working on. He is looking at her with cool detachment, waiting for her reaction. But it is not the boy's icy demeanor that affects her. Nyota is used to this from Tamor and Stivan. It is his eyes, soft brown and unexpectedly human, that discomfit her the most. It is under this fixed and measured gaze that her tears fall, her frustration with her own failings coursing down her cheeks. The boy's face softens at her distress._

_"Are you injured?" he asks, and she thinks she can make out subtle tones marking his disquiet._

_With a half swallowed sob, Nyota bolts from the workroom, escaping the scrutiny of the boy and the desperate fear that she has been tested and found inadequate. She runs as fast as she can, trying to put as much distance between herself and the boy as possible._

_She doesn't know how or when it happens, but she is suddenly 19, her current age, and running over the sand and rock of an unfamiliar desert. The sky is orange like it is at home at sunset, but the sun is high in the sky. It is oppressively hot and her breath is coming in quick gasps, as if she cannot draw in enough oxygen. She finds it increasingly difficult to move her limbs against a gravity far greater than what she is used to._

_Nyota comes to a stop, physically drained but still churning inside. Looking around, she sees that she is in front of a smooth patch of sand surrounded by twiggy scrub. She breaks off a dried branch and drops to her knees, the heated ground burning the skin on her bare legs. And she begins to write, scribbling a proof of Samel's theorem of propositional logic in vertical lines of Vulcan script far more perfect in her dream than anything she has managed awake._

_She is halfway through the proof when the ground beneath her rolls, knocking her forward to sprawl in the sand, obscuring her work. She hears a high-pitched, sharp keening and raises her head from the ground, looking for the source of the noise, as the quaking of the earth becomes more and more violent. She drops back to the ground, covering her head and closing her eyes against the shifting sand, and she fears that the ground beneath her will open up and swallow her._

_And she is suddenly awake._

-oOo-

Nyota opened her eyes in the cool darkness of her bedroom, memories of her dream already fading, the only remnant a vague recollection of mathematical proofs, running, and…oddly…a simplistic discussion of sociolinguistics. Given her anxiety the night before, she wasn't surprised she dreamed of running and math. They were the only two things that calmed her when she felt like she was crawling out of her skin. She had once tried using words to ease emotional disquiet but discovered early on that language was so integrated into her mental process, that exercises like the conjugation of complex verb forms or semantic analysis didn't provide a large enough departure from her usual thoughts to be soothing.

The shrill beeping that had woken her and was continuing to sound was her regular alarm, and Nyota considered rolling over and going back to sleep. But the anxiety carried over from her dream was a hard knot in her stomach and the muscles in her legs twitched with the memory of running in soft, hot sand.

"Shut off that damn noise!" Sophie's muffled voice drifted through the wall, chased by the dull thud of her hand. "Some people are trying to sleep."

Nyota groaned, squeezed her eyes shut and pulled her blankets over her head. "Alarm off," she said. And after a short pause, "Lights."

She peeled back the blankets, sat up, and swung her feet to the floor. If her legs wanted to run, she'd gladly oblige them. She pulled clothes out of her dresser and did a quick survey of her wardrobe for her running shoes. When she didn't find them in their usual place, she looked around her room.

"Okay," she whispered, mostly to herself but also just in case her shoes had recently grown ears. "Where could you be?"

And that's when it hit her. The words were back. Her words. The knot in her stomach perceptibly loosened, although it didn't dissolve. Nyota resumed the search for her shoes and found them uncharacteristically under her bed where she vaguely remembered kicking them the day before.

As she pulled on her running clothes, she caught her reflection in the mirror over her chest of drawers and groaned. She'd slept with her hair down.

Her hair was long, falling to the middle of her back, and by not taking the extra minute to twist it into a braid before she fell asleep, she had ensured she would wake up to a knotted mess. Nyota piled her hair on the top of her head and secured it. Running would only make it worse but she didn't care. She grabbed her hat and gloves and made a quick stop in the kitchen for a hydration pack which she clipped it to her waistband at the small of her back. She trotted out the door and jogged down the stairs to the building's front door and out onto the street.

The rain that had started the night before continued to drench the city, and the weather was near freezing. Street traffic was light with only the occasional personal transport vehicle cruising past. Nyota took her favorite route towards the city center, past the shops on Cornmarket and off down High Street. Her route took her down residential lanes, over unpaved road, and past parks, churches, pubs, and private homes with their stone fences and foreboding hedges. Using a series of footpaths and bridges, she crossed the Thames and then skirted the river up to the bridge at Abingdon Road, where she picked up The High and retraced her path home.

On any other day, Nyota would have blasted music, but today, she ran in silence and let the cadence of her feet, first on wet pavement, then on muddy paths, set the rhythm for her thoughts. After losing her words the night before, she wanted only them in her head, and she spent the hour out in the rain conjugating Yrevish verbs with their subject agreement markers, tense indicators, and forms noting indicative versus subjunctive mood.

By the time she ran into the square where she and Sophie lived, Nyota was half frozen, wet to the skin, and covered in mud. She let herself into her building, took off her shoes, and carried them up to the flat. She was breathless, and water dripped off her onto the floor and steamed from her shoulders and head in the sudden heat of the stairwell. She keyed the sensor to the door and let herself inside the flat, immediately shedding her shell and depositing her shoes in the boot tray under the row of coat hooks. The time alone with the words in her head had softened the ache in her chest, and she felt, if not at ease, then at least not ready to crawl out of her skin.

"Looks like it's still torrential out there."

Nyota spun towards the unfamiliar voice coming from the dining table. A young man in Starfleet Academy red lounged in a chair, drinking what smelled like the coffee her mother had sent in her last package from home. He was straight off a recruiting poster. His hair was blond, his eyes were the color of green grass, and he had just the right amount of sarcastic smart ass in his smile. He reminded Nyota of Charlie on his worst, most puffed up days, and she instantly disliked him.

"Just a bit," she replied. "I'm sorry, but who are you?"

"I'm Martin." He got to his feet and held out his hand. "Sophie may have mentioned me? She was supposed to comm you."

"Oh." So this was the guy Sophie picked up at the comp last year. Nyota ignored Martin's hand, her new calm slowly dissolving. "That does so much good after I've already gone to sleep."

She dripped her way towards her flatmate's bedroom. "Sophie!"

The other girl came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, fluffing her hair with her fingers. A cloud of steam billowed out the door behind her and drifted down the hall.

"Good morning, Sunshine," she said as she breezed past Nyota and took the cup of coffee Martin held out. "See? I told you she was out trotting through the mud somewhere. Don't let this put you off. She cleans up really well."

Martin laughed. "I thought my roommate was the only person crazy enough to run in a monsoon."

Sensing that she had been dismissed, Nyota padded towards her bedroom, trailing water and mud across the floor.

"It was nice to meet you," Martin called as she closed her door.

Nyota stripped off her wet clothes and traded them for her robe. As she gathered her things from the floor, she heard the front door close and let out an annoyed huff.

"You can come out now," Sophie shouted. "The coast is clear."

Nyota peeked out of her room before she deposited her clothes in the fresher in the hallway and went into the kitchen. "I thought you were going to give me some advanced warning when _we_ had overnight guests."

"I sent you a text. Martin's only in town for a week, and it seemed like a good idea to use our time as efficiently as possible. Tomorrow's our only other free night, and you saw him. His stomach's so flat, you can eat off it, and you can bounce pebbles off that ass."

Nyota closed her eyes and pressed her fingers against her forehead. "Well, I suppose it's nice to know you have some standards," she said and then groaned. "I just said that out loud, didn't I?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't get that." Sophie sipped her coffee and peered at her flatmate over the rim of her cup. "It was hard to hear you over all that self-righteousness.

"Sophie –"

"Shower first, then clean this up," she ordered, gesturing to the trail of water and dirt leading from the front door to Nyota's room. "We have to meet Charlie and the boys for breakfast in 90 minutes, and it's going to take you most of that to straighten out the nest that's masquerading as your hair. After I have another coffee, I'm heading over to the café to reserve a table. We'll try this again at breakfast, shall we?"

Sophie refilled her coffee cup from the cafetiere on the counter and carried it over to the sofa to watch the morning news feed on the vid screen, and this time, Nyota knew she'd been dismissed.

She took a deep breath and retreated to the bathroom to take a long, hot shower. By the time she scrubbed the mud out of the pores of her shins and finally got her hair untangled, Sophie was gone.

-oOo-

Pret was a bright, automated-service café located in the city center, and the Oxford team met there regularly, mostly because of the prime location. It certainly wasn't because of the food, which was replicated and served by machine. Nyota hurried passed the large front windows to the entrance, closed her umbrella, and ducked inside.

Charlie stood at the head of their usual table, playing king of the castle. He always argued that leadership came naturally to him given his birth, but Nyota thought it was more likely that people just let him be in charge of things because he became a childish ass if he didn't get his way, whether he'd earned it or not.

Charles Spencer was the oldest son of the Earl of Northbury, and he embodied every bad cliché that had ever existed about the British peerage: superior, entitled, arrogant. The real problem with Charlie was that he hid this all behind sleepy blue eyes, dark hair that he constantly fell over his forehead, and a shy but brilliant smile. He was a charmer, and Nyota had dated him for almost four months before she realized that what lay beneath Charlie's appealing surface not only didn't interest her, it repulsed her.

She'd wanted to end things right then, but Sophie had cautioned her about wounding Charlie's ego because he could make it difficult for her to keep having anything to do with the linguistics society. Luckily, it had only taken two weeks of being the worst girlfriend imaginable and a disastrous dinner with his parents to get him to break it off instead. She'd been surprised how easily they'd transitioned to being teammates, so it turned out Sophie had been right.

Sophie, who was putting all of her energy into ignoring her.

"Sorry," she mumbled, glancing around the table. "My morning didn't go as planned." Nyota took the empty seat at the end of the table next to Charlie and shrugged off her coat. She gave him a weak smile as she pulled her ponytail out from her collar.

"I'd take you to task for being late, but you're a vision." Charlie turned and sketched a shallow bow in her direction. Sophie, just out of Charlie's sightline, rolled her eyes to the ceiling, and Pete pantomimed choking himself, his tongue lolling down his chin, and his eyes bulging. Nyota unsuccessfully stifled her answering snort of laughter.

"What?" Charlie spun towards Sophie and Pete, and they rushed to compose themselves, affecting identical guileless, wide-eyed expressions.

"Is it my hair?" Charlie asked. "Am I too well groomed?" His tone was deceptively innocent. "Or is it my trousers? Are they too stylish? Am I so dashingly attractive that no one at this table takes me seriously?" There was no way to take him seriously, the way he was preening and strutting, and Nyota, Sophie and Pete burst out laughing.

Charlie abruptly ended his display and turned to Naresh, who was engrossed in watching something on his PADD. "Pardon me, but I'm being brilliantly funny, and you're missing it."

"Is this the bit about how devilishly handsome you are that it's hard to believe you're so brilliant or the bit about how you're so brilliant, it's unfair to the rest of world that you're so attractive?" Naresh's attention remained fixed on the screen. "Seriously mate, I think it's time you came up with new material."

"Because you and Davies haven't been trotting out the same tired Welsh Jabberwocky routine for the past year." He ran his hand through his hair and glared down at the other man.

"Boys, boys," Sophie broke in. "You're both pretty!"

Naresh had the good grace to look remorseful and removed his earpiece. "Sorry, Soph."

But Charlie wasn't done. His mouth was pulled into a thin line, and he looked just like a spoiled little boy on the verge of throwing a tantrum. Nyota reached out and touched his hand. "Charlie?"

He stood, frozen for a second, and flicked his eyes around the table and nodded. "Well, now that's all sorted, let's get down to the business at hand. I don't think that I need to remind you all that the name of today's game is speed."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read chapter 1, whether you liked it or not and whether it was your thing or not. I really appreciate it. 
> 
> As you may have guessed, this story is set in Oxford, England. I've only been there twice, and one time it was after dark and for the sole purpose of having my picture taken on the grand staircase outside the Great Hall of Christchurch College. Harry Potter fans will understand. So please take anything here about the city, the university, and Britain in general with a very large grain of salt. Also, there are several things here that I just made up or am very aware are wrong (like how Sophie and Nyota live in a block of buildings currently owned by the University). The story's set in the future. It could happen. That being said, if I've gotten anything glaringly wrong, I'd love to hear from someone who knows.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deganamfiehcsim was very kind to point out that I had accidentally posted the same chapter twice, and I'm really grateful. If anyone was a little confused, it's totally my fault. I've updated the chapter, and hopefully this won't happen again. Sorry.

The Oxford Linguistics Invitational began as a part of the annual Oxford International Linguistics Conference in 2055. It was originally a small competition for secondary school students in Great Britain covering theoretical, computational, and applied linguistics, but first contact with Vulcan in 2063 brought significant change to the competition.

The contest gradually changed to include a focus on xenolinguistics, which drew interest from institutions of higher education looking for ways to showcase the excellence of their linguistics programs as a way to attract funding and top young minds. Over the years, the competition grew in size and scale, and Oxford University now played host to teams from 40 select universities and institutes from around the planet in a four-day contest.

As the host, Oxford was always represented, but the team's performance had been inconsistent despite the sterling reputation of the university's linguistics, science, and math programs. Other schools traditionally dominated the competition, usually MIT, Kyoto, and the Starfleet Academy.

Competition consisted of four increasingly difficult rounds, one each day. On the first day, teams were required to solve six related linguistic puzzles. This problems weren't difficult; the real challenges were speed and accuracy. Because this first round was the equivalent of a time trial, only the fastest thirty-two teams with the highest degree of accuracy would advance to the second round the following day.

As Charlie Spencer had told his team that morning, the name of the game was speed.

-oOo-

Sophie hated when Charlie was right. The way he strutted around like he had just negotiated lasting peace between the Federation and the Klingons always made her feel like punching somebody. But she'd been a member of the last Oxford linguistics team, and she'd be damned if she was going to let something as insignificant as her personal feelings about the puffed up spawn of a minor member of an outdated system of governance cause her to fuck up the way she had last year.

Charlie was never going to let her forget she'd failed to check the upload accuracy of the main work screens the year before, a mistake that resulted in an incomplete submission at the end of the first round and Oxford's poorest showing in well over a decade.

Her mum always told her you had to make the most out of a bad deal, and Sophie was determined to turn her mistake into something good. She'd swallowed her pride and begged Charlie, who was the newly crowned president of the Oxford Linguistics Society and self-appointed team captain, to let her on the team again. When pleading, cajoling, and flattery hadn't proved effective, Sophie bided her time and waited for an opening. This came about, not surprisingly, as a result of Charlie's own arrogance.

Because of the team's poor prior showings, Charlie had trouble raising interest in the competition from anyone in the linguistics department, let alone attracting competitors from any of the other sciences. His conviction of the superiority of the linguistics department was too off-putting to appeal to students outside of it. But academic diversity was a necessity to excel at the Invitational, something that had been Oxford's weakness in the past, so Sophie offered Charlie a deal he couldn't afford to ignore: She handed him his team, readymade. A team that could win.

Naresh Gowda was doing postgraduate work in bioacoustics as applied to language structure, and he had as little use for Charlie as Sophie did. They had bonded over their shared loathing of the linguistics department's golden boy. At first, she and Naresh had avoided one another, victims of bad first impressions, and Sophie hadn't been surprised to discover he thought she was just a pampered little brat from a wealthy family with nothing more in her head than her next date.

She had assumed he had an enormous stick up his ass.

As it turned out, she was right. Naresh did have a stick up there, just not as big as Sophie had thought. And then one night, over a far too many pints, Naresh had told her about his lengthy separation from his wife, Anjali, a marine exobiologist who was stationed at a research facility on a colony moon deep in the Beta Quadrant. They had been apart for two years and weren't expecting to see one another again until he completed his coursework and joined her at her posting. Sophie knew she'd never hold his serious and quiet nature against him again.

When she made it her mission regain her position on the Oxford linguistics team, she went after Naresh first.

It had taken little enough. Sophie's mother was Rose Lansing, the head of one of Earth's most prominent interstellar import/export houses, so she had arrange for one of the company's scouting vessels to bring Anjali to the nearest Federation transportation hub where she boarded a Lansing freighter headed for Earth.

It had been another thing entirely to keep her purposeful diversion of company resources from her mother. It had taken no small number of credits deposited into the account of the freighter captain in question, parts for his crew's still, some explicit Orion holovids, and a keg or two of Romulan ale to buy some very creative flight log documentation and an impressive amount of silence. It had been a genuine stroke of luck that the scout vessel best able to take Anjali back to her posting was commanded by one of Sophie's oldest friends, the son of her mother's chief executive and her partner in countless childhood adventures.

The venture went off without a hitch, and now, six months after the fact, if Rose knew about her daughter's subverting her trade ships, she either didn't care or was saving the knowledge for use at a future date. Either way, there was no point worrying about a deal already struck, and Sophie resolved to handle it when and if it became an issue. For now, Naresh would do pretty much anything for the person who had brought him his wife, however briefly, and Sophie wanted him on the Oxford team. He never really stood a chance when it came right down to it.

Peter Davies was in his first year at Oxford studying computer programming when he stumbled across the Linguistics Society. He was only 16 and away from his home on the Welsh coast for the first time, and despite his brilliance, he was rubbish with directions. It had been pouring rain, and Pete, who had gotten lost in the gloom, had ended up in Christ Church's junior common room during a revision session. Someone had assumed Pete was there for the session and offered him some tea and a biscuit, and he'd been too wet and cold to argue. He'd ended up staying and came back for the next session even though he wasn't taking any linguistics courses, as interested in the science of it all as the promise of regular access to free baked goods.

While Pete wasn't a linguist, he could analyze patterns and could spot irregularities in those patterns almost before he looked at them. Those were assets Sophie felt were invaluable. She had fussed over him and teased him like he was one of her younger cousins. Pete, who came from a large family, had embraced the familiarity and agreed to join the team as much for the friendship as for the challenge.

Nyota had been the one Sophie had been the most concerned with. She and and the other girl had met at the beginning of the prior academic year at the first Linguistics Society meeting and had quickly become friends. Over that year, Sophie realized Nyota had an exceptionally good ear, and unlike her, could reproduce nearly any sound that the human larynx was capable of making. She absorbed languages and could interpret language patterns almost instinctively.

Sophie had watched her friend's disastrous decision to start dating Charlie even though she'd advised her against it without comment. She'd been there with wine and sympathy when Nyota had shown up on her doorstep one night looking a little lost after dinner with Charlie and his parents where the conversation had enthusiastically turned to the natural superiority of the human race over other species and how human progress had been set back generations by the iron grip Vulcans held over the Federation Council. From what Sophie could work out, the evening had ended when Nyota and Charlie had argued over her plans to join Starfleet after she was finished at Oxford, and she had walked out in the middle of dessert claiming a headache.

Sophie supposed she should have been more surprised by this revelation. Nyota certainly had been. Halfway into their second bottle of wine, Sophie had to take her comm away from her to keep her from dumping Charlie by text. Nyota was better than that, and she wasn't about to let her give Charlie any evidence to the contrary. Fortunately, Charlie wasn't better than that, and when Sophie had given the other girl her comm back the next morning, he'd already left her a message breaking things off.

Nyota had been quiet for a long time, her hand clapped over her mouth, and Sophie had been afraid she was truly upset. And then she'd laughed and confessed that the relationship had started to crumble pretty early on, and she couldn't be more relieved it was done with. By breakfast, the girls had planned for Nyota to move into Sophie's spare bedroom at the beginning of the next academic year.

She'd asked her to be on the team their first morning as flatmates and had been prepared for a lengthy battle of wills, but she'd said yes right off. Sophie hadn't been entirely sure Nyota hadn't agreed because she still had a thing for Charlie, but after watching them work closely together over the last six months, she hadn't seen either of them show any interest in getting back together. As it turned out, she'd said yes because Sophie was her friend and she had asked.

When Sophie approached Charlie a second time, she'd presented him with the team he had been unable to put together, and it was a done deal. The five of them functioned surprisingly well, complimenting one another's strengths and shoring up the weaknesses, and after working together for the past six months, they were operating pretty seamlessly, particularly when it came to diffusing conflict.

-oOo-

After breakfast, Sophie and Nyota headed over to the competition hall to sign in and begin preparing the Oxford team's assigned work area. The hour allotted was barely sufficient time in Sophie's opinion. Her checklist seemed endless, and it would only get longer after the first round because after that, there would be sound equipment for the audio questions to deal with. .

Sophie reviewed her hard-copy prep list as they walked and watched the other girl stew out of the corner of her eye. Nyota had dug her hands into the pockets of her coat and was chewing the inside of her lip, looking anywhere but at Sophie.

"Come on, you know you want to say it."

Nyota sighed, her cheeks puffing out with the force of her breath.

"What was that? I didn't hear," Sophie said, not looking up from the paper she studied.

Nyota looked at her and then rolled her eyes towards the sky. "Sorry."

"For?"

"Calling you indiscriminate in your choice of sexual partners." Nyota grumbled.

"Exactly. I'm very careful who I let in there. Sorry for not giving you more warning about Martin."

"I thought you weren't seeing him until tomorrow night."

"I wasn't. But he was at the pub, and he was just as hot as last year, and I needed something to take the edge off. You've seen the list," she wailed and waved the paper in front of the other girl.

"I'm helping you with the list. We all are."

"I know, I know." Sophie stuffed the paper into her jacket pocket. "I just…I can't cock this up again. Mum will never let me hear the end of it."

Nyota looped her arm through the other girl's and gave her a reassuring squeeze. "It'll be fine. We'll all be fine."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Sophie exhaled as they climbed the front steps of the competition hall and shifted her shoulders to loosen the tension that had slowly built up between them. This wasn't the first time she and Nyota had butted up against one another, and their friendship was fine. On the bright side, Nyota's cooperation in whatever mad schemes she came up with was all but assured for the next several weeks. All she would have to do was utter the magic words: You owe me. There were more important things to focus on now.

-oOo-

Rowling Hall was built by Christ Church College in 2097 after a generous donation from the estate of a well-known children's author. The walls were ringed by rows of reconfigurable seating beneath soaring arched windows and a buttressed ceiling that reflected a holograph of the night sky. It had been designed as a visual companion to the college's Great Hall, where students still took their meals, but on a much grander scale and was a popular site for academic competition.

For the Invitational, the floor was separated into 40 individual work areas. Each area had a work table, two transparent vertical work screens and a display screen. PADDS networked to the work and display screens were provided for each team member, and no personal tech was allowed on the competition floor. This made the scant prep time vital because the PADDs had to be configured to each team member's preferences, network connections needed to be checked, and equipment sensitivity and connection tested.

As she and Nyota reached the Oxford team's work area, Sophie panicked. The rest of the team wasn't there. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Naresh and Pete should be collecting the team's verification chip, which would be used to validate their submitted answers, so they wouldn't be in the work area yet.

Charlie was only responsible for calibrating his PADD, so he didn't need to be there and would probably just get in the way if he was. And Sophie thought she had glimpsed him chatting up the same chesty blonde from UCLA he'd been sniffing around the night before as she and Nyota had threaded their way across the competition floor. They were all where they were supposed to be, so it was time to get to work.

Sophie started by syncing the PADDS to one another, and when she finished, she handed one to Nyota so that she could adjust it to her personal preferences. Her teammate scribbled figures in Kanji and then switched to the more sweeping figures of Arabic before she sent her work to the main screens to verify it transferred correctly.

"It's great, Sophie. Thanks."

"Sure." Sophie grabbed her own PADD and smoothed out her prep checklist against the table top. She ticked off the tasks they had completed on the touch-sensitive paper, reviewed the items they still needed to address, and took a quick look around.

Nyota was leaning against the work table pretending to readjust her PADD, but Sophie could see that she was peering up through her eyelashes at something just out of Sophie's sight range. She glanced over her shoulder and found herself staring into sea of dark red.

The Starfleet Academy's assigned position was only two positions over, and while she couldn't see Martin, Sophie had a clear view of his Vulcan teammate. Spock, or something like that. Martin had introduced the tall Vulcan the night before at Bookbinder's, and she had recognized him as the man Nyota had been knocked into on her way back from the loo. Sophie smiled and glanced back at her flatmate, who was still working very hard at looking busy, and went back to her list. She barely heard Nyota whisper.

"Oh, this is inconvenient."

"What is?"

Nyota started, as if she had forgotten the other girl was just a few feet away. "Nothing," Nyota mumbled. "I'll tell you later."

"This doesn't have anything to do with last night, does it? It's not like you to run away from a party that early."

"I'm fine. It was just loud and crowded, and I guess I wasn't in the mood." Nyota put down her PADD and tore open the sealed package of styluses that had been provided and began checking them for glitches.

"That was a pretty nasty tumble you took before you left. Maybe that had something to do with it? Although that cadet you crashed into was definitely worth the trouble."

"It was nothing, Sophie."

"If you say so." Sophie concentrated on configuring her own PADD and feigned indifference. "I was just wondering if that's why you were speaking Vulcan when you said goodbye."

"What?" Nyota looked up sharply and caught Sophie's sleeve. Her voice was barely above a whisper. "No, I wasn't speaking Vulcan."

"Yes, you were, but if you didn't even know what language you were speaking, I guess you really did need to get out of there."

"Sophie, I'm fine."

"Good." She fixed Nyota with a hard stare. "Now stop drooling over tall, dark, and stoic over there and make sure that the screens are working properly. And test them to make sure they register corrections and proofing accurately."

Nyota's mouth worked soundlessly for a minute, and Sophie turned her back to hide a smirk. She probably couldn't decide which statement to argue against. "I'm not drooling," she said finally.

"Are you kidding? I'm ankle deep in it. It's a shock I haven't slipped and broken my neck. You know, this is why I tried to set you up with my cousin David when he was in town last week."

"Is it really?" Nyota asked, her voice flat and humorless.

"Yes, I knew you wouldn't be able to control your hormones in the middle of all of this scientific prowess, and I was hoping he'd help take the edge off."

Nyota grabbed a stylus from the neat rows she had laid them in and crossed to the screen closest to the work table without responding.

"But of course," Sophie continued. "You were too busy revising first-order logic to meet him, and now look at the fix we're in. You're hot and bothered and, to be quite honest, a right bitch, and _that_  is only steps away." She waved her hand towards the Vulcan cadet. "If you're rubbish today, it's not my fault."

"I think you're overreacting." Nyota tapped the stylus she held against her chin and stared at the screen. She began to work what Sophie vaguely recognized as an equation in jagged and disjointed characters. Orion trader's script, she thought. Best language for sums, really.

"Ordinarily, I'd tell you to jump him, but do Vulcans even have casual sex?"

Nyota stopped writing, the stylus still hovering over the screen. "Why are you asking me? How would I know?"

"Oh, that's right," Sophie said, as if she were suddenly remembering something important. "You don't actually know any Vulcans, do you? One of these days you'll have to explain to me how you speak the language so bloody well then." She returned to her list and was satisfied that other than the screens and the remaining PADD check, they were only waiting on the verification chip Naresh and Pete should be collecting at the check-in desk. "I don't see what the problem is. He's exactly your type."

"I have a type?" Nyota had resumed covering the screen in the complex formula she had started, but her attention was clearly divided. "Please, enlighten me."

"I thought you'd never ask." Sophie perched on the work table, her tone deepening as she warmed to her subject. "Tall. Dark hair. Brilliant, knows it, doesn't downplay it. Let's face it, you like a bit of arrogance. But not too much, either. Too many shades of Charlie, shall we say? Oh, and emotionally unavailable. That's important."

"Excuse me?" Nyota stopped writing again and glared at Sophie. "Is this about this morning? Because you forgave me for that, remember?"

"No, I didn't. I accepted your apology. That's different. You still owe me for this morning."

"I don't go looking for emotionally unavailable men." The equation on the screen, temporarily forgotten, glowed blue.

"That's where you're wrong." Sophie swung her legs back and forth like a little girl. "You run as far and as fast as you can from anything that'll interfere with Starfleet. How often do you talk to your family?"

"That's not fair." She blinked at the formula on the screen in front of her.

"But it's true." Sophie hopped off the table and stepped into Nyota's line of sight. "Point is, I've watched you ignore any number of suitable men, and who did you stay with for five months? Charlie, the biggest git I've ever met. And you know the only reason you're not still together is his…total distaste, shall we say…for anything that comes from off world."

"That's putting it lightly." Nyota finished filling the screen and keyed her PADD to upload the information into the team's submission folder. "I don't understand why you're always so concerned about setting him off."

"I know better than to say anything that could piss off a man who may someday have influence over regulating my mum's business," Sophie said archly. "And now the world sees fit to drop  _that_ in your lap. I couldn't have invented a better one-nighter for you. He checks all your boxes, and that pun is intended, by the way."

Nyota crossed to the second screen and began writing again, this time scrawling graceful vertical columns. The script curled and twined its way down the screen, almost like musical notation. Sophie wondered if Nyota even realized that she'd switched from trader's script to Vulcan.

"Who are we talking about?" Charlie's voice was loud and cheerful in Sophie's ear. She snapped her head in his direction as he peered over her shoulder, her heart pounding wildly. "Shit, Charlie."

"How are we doing on time?" Clearly, he didn't expect an answer to his first question.

"Pretty well. Nyota's testing the screens, and you and the boys need to configure your PADDs. Then we're safe as houses."

"Good." Charlie surveyed the room. His eyes slid over the team from Starfleet Academy but then drifted back to Martin's roommate. The Vulcan was watching Nyota as she worked on their second screen. Charlie's squinted, and then moved to stand next to her. "What's this nonsense you're writing?"

"A mathematical proof."

"And what language is that?"

Nyota hesitated for a second. "Vulcan. It tests a lot of the graphemes that might come up and verifies that the board records and uploads them correctly."

"Is that necessary? Couldn't you use some human language?" His tone was almost too casual.

"It's an efficient way to test the screens. Look around. Most of the other teams use non-Terran languages, too."

"Well, all right then. Good," he said, reaching for the PADD Sophie held out. "What's this?"

"You need to adjust the settings and test the transfer accuracy."

"We're here," Pete gasped as he ran into the work area. He slapped his hands down on the table to try and slow his momentum but still crashed into it. Naresh followed at a more leisurely pace and handed the verification chip to Sophie who installed it into Nyota's PADD. The same chip would provide the validating codes for the team's submissions throughout the competition, and she was the only member of the team participating in all four rounds.

"Check your PADDs," Sophie instructed them. "And Naresh, you'll want to check the screens to make sure that they recognize your writing and upload the screen contents properly. We only have a few minutes before the monitoring fields go up. And Pete, please don't forget that after the fields are live, you can't step outside of the boundaries or we'll be disqualified."

"Got it." Pete skirted the table to take a PADD but tripped over one of its legs and stumbled just outside the work area.

"Pete! Be careful!"

"Sorry, Sophie."

"All competitors report to their assigned work areas." The smooth, feminine voice broadcast throughout the hall. "The first round of the 2253 Oxford Linguistics Invitational will begin in five minutes."


	4. Chapter 4

"The night-crow cries and the raven rooks her on the chimney top, foretelling of bloodshed and battle to come." Charlie's brow creased as he read the message he had just received from his PADD, and his expression grew increasingly perplexed. "What's this nonsense? It reads like bad Shakespeare."

Following their completion of the first round of the competition, the Oxford linguistics team had gathered at a nearby pub for lunch to wait for the results. They had eaten crammed around a small table in a dark corner while Charlie and Sophie had reviewed, replayed and analyzed the round and had just finished when Charlie's comm chimed, ending any further discussion.

"I think it is Shakespeare," Sophie answered, peering across the table at the moving image of large, black birds scavenging flesh from a field of fallen soldiers that accompanied the overworked text of the message. "Go on. Finish it."

"God help us all when mathematicians try to be literary." Charlie shook his head and resumed his recitation. "Make wing to the rooky wood as the good things of day begin to droop and drowse and proffer up the one among you more full of words, more perfect in the use of logic, whose knowledge of syntax is strong and ear, the best. Let fly the crows of war and when the hurly-burly's done, when the battle's lost and won, one will stand victorious and smooth success be scattered at their feet. Will you be a champion or will you be a feast for crows? The battle commences tonight at 19:00 hours at The Rookery. Arrive early for sustenance and succor."

He turned to Nyota, his mouth drawn up as if he had tasted something sour. "Exactly how drunk where they when they came up with this?"

"You don't want to know, but Jem and Conrad were pretty pleased with themselves for a couple of days afterwards."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Pete asked.

"Pub quiz," Sophie chirped as she wrested Charlie's PADD from him. "It's put on each year by the maths society for the teams that make it to round two. Last year's was pretty fun. It had a Roman gladiator theme. There's food and drink, and those of us who don't have to do the solo round tomorrow get a bit of a break. I've explained this all before."

"I might not have listened. What am I supposed to do?"

"That's the beauty of it. We don't do anything. It's all on that one," Sophie explained, pointing at Nyota. "Tonight's a preview of the tomorrow's solo round. That's what this middle part means." She tapped the screen of Charlie's PADD. "The solo competitors go one-on-one until there's only one left."

"Wait, it's a fight? Shouldn't that be Charlie?" "And Davies has lost the plot again," Charlie sneered.

Nyota gave him a flat look and turned to Pete. "Well, Charlie is most likely to come out on top in a fist fight…"

"Well, thank you," Charlie interjected. "I do try to keep fit."

"…mostly because he fights dirty…"

"Hey!"

"…but it's not an actual fight." Nyota laughed at Charlie's exaggerated pout. "It's also not a human sacrifice or a beauty contest. Those have all been themes."

"The maths society is very big on themes," Sophie supplied and slid Charlie's PADD back to him.

"It's just a truncated version of the solo round." Nyota reached across the table and swatted at the other girl. "We're paired off in brackets based on how well the team did overall last year. Oxford didn't do well at all. Sorry Sophie, I know that's a sore spot. So I'll probably go up against Harvard or Edinburgh first. They were near the top last year and we were what? Thirty-third? It's a single question under limited time. Whoever gets it most right moves on to the next round."

"That's brilliant. I'm aces at showing up."

"It's lots of fun," Sophie continued. "We eat, we drink, we socialize, we provide moral support for our comrade in the trenches not limited to heckling the other teams and shouting out the answers if we know them. It's all very uncivilized."

The invitation to the pub night hosted by the Oxford mathematics society, the Invariants, was usually the first notification a team received that they made it to the second round, often before the official results were circulated. In all the years of the pub night, no one had been able to figure out how the society got hold of the results, but the invitation was generally received a good half-hour before the standings were announced publicly. Nyota thought it was because her department was populated with some pretty talented hackers.

Charlie's comm chimed again, and the table quieted as he checked his messages.

"Well, that was from MacAllan." He paused dramatically to let the information sink in. Horace MacAllan was the head of the Faculty of Linguistics, Philology and Phonetics and the team's adviser.

"And?" Sophie's tone was sharp and impatient.

"Come on, Charlie," Nyota said. "Stop teasing."

He rose from his chair at the head of the table. "We're in third place."

"Oh, thank god." Sophie sighed in relief.

"You're welcome," Charlie replied as he turned his attention back to his comm. "MacAllan wants us at The Rookery no later than half six. He's planning on staking out a table near the front with Dr. Duncan. That gives us nearly five hours. Has anyone got any suggestions?"

"We should head home." Sophie turned to Nyota who nodded in agreement. "Don't worry, we'll be there early enough."

"Yeah, Charlie," Naresh said as he gathered his coat. "We're all adults; we don't need to be sat upon."

"Well, alright then," Charlie responded, his tone broadcasting his dissatisfaction with his easy dismissal. "I'll just meet MacAllan early. If anything changes, I'll keep you informed." He threw on his coat and glided out the door.

-oOo-

"This place looks like a cross between a dungeon and an aviary in hell."

It was Nyota's first time at The Rookery, and from the look of things, it would also be her last. The pub was a cavernous space carved out of the ground floors of an entire block of buildings at Oxford's center. The place catered exclusively to tourists searching for a "real British experience," so of course, it was nothing of the sort. The walls, floor, and ceiling of the pub were clad in a veneer of dark stone with timber supports. Flickering torchlight provided by artfully placed holos gave a sinister quality to the iron-clad wooden tables, chairs, and booths; and the barmen and other staff were outfitted like escapees from an S&M club, all black leather and silver chains.

And then there were the birds. Holos of ravens and crows fluttered on ledges and perches throughout the room. They pecked idly at the bar and congregated in and on large, iron cages on stands and swinging suspended from chains on the ceiling. Nyota flinched at a loud caw in her ear, and she spun to find herself eye-to-beady-eye with a ghostly mass of black feathers settled firmly on the top of a marble bust of an American writer.

"Nevermore," the bird croaked. Then the hologram flickered, and the image's action loop restarted from the beginning.

"There." Sophie grabbed Nyota's elbow and pointed towards the end of the room where there was a large stage. Naresh and Pete sat with Professor MacAllan and the head of the Oxford University Mathematics Institute, Dr. Marcus Duncan. MacAllan was gesturing grandly, and his red cheeks betrayed an afternoon spent with a pint in his hand as he guarded the team's prime position near what would soon be the center of the action.

Pete had been staring around the room and spotted the girls. He waved as Nyota followed Sophie through the room and shed her coat and hat.

"There's my girl," MacAllan boomed. He surged to his feet to give Sophie a fatherly hug. "Best first round showing Oxford's had in a decade, Miss Lansing. Excellent, excellent work."

"Thank you, sir." Sophie glowed at the praise, and Nyota suspected she'd been forgiven for her lapse the year before. "Now, can I buy you and Mr. Gowda a drink?"

Nyota shared a smirk with Pete at MacAllan's familiar refusal to acknowledge them.

"Come now, Horace," Duncan broke in. "You know this is a hosted bar. Let's both go and bring back a round for the table. You are legal, aren't you Davies?"

"Eighteen, sir," Pete answered.  "Thank you."

"Of course. Be back in a tick. Follow me, Horace." Duncan led MacAllan towards the bar.

"I see MacAllan is still pretending that Pete and I don't exist," Nyota said as she draped her coat over a chair and sat down.

"He hasn't looked at me once, and I've been here for a half hour. If it hadn't been for Dr. Duncan, I don't think he would have let me sit down," Pete said.

"Oh, it's not that bad," Sophie said, sitting next to Nyota.

"Yes, it is," Nyota told her. "You just don't see it because you like him."

"It's not that," Naresh offered. He shifted towards Nyota. "You and Pete just don't count because you both have the audacity to study something other than linguistics."

"Yeah," Sophie agreed with a wicked grin. "You're interlopers."

"Interlopers?" Nyota fixed the other girl with a threatening stare. "You know, I can just go home, and you can fend for yourselves tonight."

"Oh, no you don't. Naresh, hold her down while I find some rope."

"Who are we tying up?" Charlie sauntered up to the table, acting for all the world like he was lord of the manor. "Could it be Lansing? That would be tops."

"Ha ha," Sophie muttered and then added under her breath, "Smarmy git."

"I'm sorry. What was that?" Charlie stood behind her chair and loomed over her.

As they bickered, Nyota's attention drifted to the activity in the room around her. The gathering wasn't much different than the one the night before at Bookbinders, other than the presence of the numerous Oxford faculty members, the academic advisers for the visiting teams, and a small horde of maths students taking advantage of the free food and beer. At least MacAllan was already firmly in his cups, so it was less like being chaperoned and more like babysitting your wayward, drunken uncle.

She was distracted from her thoughts by two sets of flailing arms up  at the front of the room. Two of her college mates, Jasper King and Randy Stewart, were waving at her from the stage, and she raised her hand in response. It looked like the boys, who were two of the organizers of this year's quiz, were having trouble setting up the work screens and monitors for the challenge. A third man was on the stage, but he was stretched out under the central monitor that had been set up specifically for the quiz, and all Nyota could see of him were the soles of his black boots. Jasper motioned for her to come up to the stage, but she shook her head and turned to take in the rest of the room.

Part of the Starfleet Academy team was at a table near the center of the room. Two female cadets Nyota had seen that morning sat side-by-side, deep in conversation and senseless to the activity around them. She looked around for the rest of the team and spotted a tall woman in a black uniform emblazoned with the Starfleet insignia at the bar talking to Dr. Duncan while MacAllan nodded vacantly and sipped a pint of ale. Duncan gestured animatedly, and the woman laughed. That must be the Starfleet faculty adviser. A lean Andorian cadet with shockingly bright silver hair was seated a few tables over, engaged in a seemingly heated debate with two students from Kyoto, his antennae poised and alert.

She didn't see the Vulcan cadet or Sophie's friend Martin, and she half-hoped neither of them were there. She was still irrationally resentful of Martin for being at her flat that morning, but if she was honest with herself, the Vulcan was the larger problem.

She'd watched him that morning and decided he wasn't that good looking. His nose was large and blunt, and his mouth had a funny tilt at the corners that made him look like he was constantly amused by something, which was incongruous to the somberness in his eyes. Sure, he was tall, but his thin, lanky frame made his arms and legs look too long for the rest of him.

But his hands had been quick and sure and graceful as he'd filled the screens in his team's work area with line after line of flowing script, and she'd remembered how strong they were when he'd caught her and kept her on her feet the night before. Her heart had been beating so hard and so fast, she hadn't heard half of what Sophie said to her as they'd prepped the team's work area that morning.

Nyota felt ridiculous. She hadn't reacted to a guy like that since she was 15. And then Sophie had caught her staring which had been even more embarrassing.

She scanned the crowd again. Where was he?

"He's over there." Sophie had finished her skirmish with Charlie, and given the acerbic tone of her voice, she'd been on the losing end of the exchange.

Nyota jumped, and her breath caught in her throat. She turned to the other girl and swallowed to force her heart back into her chest where it belonged. "Don't do that. And who?"

Sophie rolled her eyes and pointed towards the stage. "Up there. Looks like your mates from the maths department put him to work."

Nyota looked up at the stage. Jasper and Randy had indeed pressed the Vulcan cadet into service. He was just closing the access panel on the side of the display at the center of the stage, and the screen glowed as it finally came to life. The cadet used a PADD to run a series of tests on the monitor, and watching him, Nyota revised her opinion from that morning.

As the cadet worked, Nyota was again drawn to his hands. They were large and neat, and his movements were spare and efficient. His long fingers danced confidently on the surface of the PADD he held.

His dark eyes were sharp and intelligent, and she thought there was something about them that softened both the severe lines of his traditional straight-lined haircut and the sharp angle of his brows. She imagined what a trial his unintentional half-smile must be for someone who was defined by emotional control. His skin was pale, and the contrast with his black hair was shocking.

She'd been wrong. He wasn't just good looking. He was beautiful. Her heart beat a little faster watching him, an ache slowly forming.  A longing for something she couldn't put a name to.

Nyota was so wrapped up in her observation of the cadet she didn't notice Professor MacAllan return to the table alone and deposit a tray of full pint glasses in the middle. She blinked in confusion when a glass of fizzy water was set down in front of her.

"Here, drink this," Sophie told her with a hint of laughter in her voice. "I think you're overheating."

"Will you stop that? I'm not overheating."

"Of course not. I don't suppose you've paid any attention to the nonsense going on here?"

"What now?"

"Apparently, Charlie is now taking sole credit for our success in this morning's round, the discovery of electricity, the development of interstellar travel, and evolution in general."

"And this surprises you?"

"No, not – "

The piercing screech of audio feedback over the pub's sound system cut off the rest of her reply. Dr. Duncan stood in the center of the stage using his comm to tie into the audio system to amplify his voice.

"Well, I hazard to guess that answers the age old question: Is this thing on?" Laughter rippled through the room as the audience settled and people directed their attention to the stage.

"My name is Marcus Duncan, and I'm the head of the Mathematics Institute. Before I turn things over to our Masters of Ceremony for the evening, I wanted to say a few words. First, welcome to The Rookery and congratulations for surviving the first day of the Invitational."

The crowd whooped and cheered, and Duncan held up his hands and raised his voice over the noise. "I would encourage each and every one of you to please take advantage of the hosted bar and the tremendous buffet. There are a large number of students from my department in attendance tonight, and I can say from experience that they are always hungry, so if you wait, you may find yourself wanting." More laughter chased Duncan's comments.

"Too late," came a cry from near the food tables, and cheers rang out through the room again.

"Good to know that you apply yourself to something, Mr. Witt, because it certainly isn't your schoolwork," Duncan responded. His words were punctuated by hoots of approval and good natured applause.

"Ordinarily, I do this bit about the University's spotty performance at the Invitational over the years and how this spawned the great tradition you're all about to be a part of. To be quite honest, we Invariants genuinely appreciate watching the best our linguistics program has to offer get spanked at this year after year."

"I say, Marcus," MacAllan called, rising to his feet. "Speaking of spanking, I seem to remember an incident a few years ago involving you, the local constabulary, and a rather large fish."

"Horace." Duncan's tone was full of reproach, but he unsuccessfully hid a grin. "You know I was only there to post your bail. Now, getting back to the business at hand, this year, the Oxford team is in third position after the first round, an almost unprecedented placing for the University. And tonight, the Invariants don't have the comfort of heckling the event because Oxford is being represented by one of our own." Once again, he had to shout to be heard over the crows and whistles from the audience.

"So be warned. This year, you're all going down. Now, Mr. King and Mr. Stewart? If you would do the honors."

Jasper stepped forward and raised his hands for order.

"Hello everybody! I'm Jasper King, and my counterpart from the States with the unfortunate name is Randy Stewart, and we are shepherding tonight's proceedings. Just as in prior years, the questions tonight have been culled from a list of submissions from each competing school. The questions will be selected at random and scored by the computer. What the computer says goes. When your school is called, come up to the stage, shake hands, barring some cultural taboo, and come out swinging.

"The question and any necessary lexicon will appear on this center screen and on the screens spaced around the room."

Randy broke in. "If you want the questions sent directly to your PADD or comm, send a request to the address displayed on the central monitor."

"Yes, thank you Randy. Challengers will have a short time period to complete their answer. The challenger with the answer that is most correct moves on to the next round, and so on and so on, until only one remains. Are you ready?" The room erupted in cheers andbellows. "All right! Let's get MIT and Queensland up here!

-oOo-

"Well done, you!" When she returned to her team after her third victory, Nyota found herself engulfed in a tangle of pale limbs and candy floss hair. Sophie knocked the air from her lungs with the force of her embrace, and her grip around her ribs was so tight, Nyota struggled to take a full breath.

"Come one, Soph. You're strangling her," Naresh said as he tugged at Sophie's arms.

"Well, pardon me for my enthusiasm," Sophie huffed, letting her friend loose. "I don't think the team's ever made it to the final round on pub night, and I'm a bit beside myself."

"Well, I think we should hear from the hero of the hour," Pete said. "Miss Uhura, would you care to say a few words?"

"Here, here!" Sophie perched in her chair attentively. At the other end of the table, Charlie and Professor MacAllan were deep in conversation, and Nyota wondered if they'd even watched the round.

"Isn't that a little premature?  There's still one more round." Nyota looked back towards the stage where the screens were being reset for the match between Kyoto and Starfleet Academy that would decide her opponent for the final.

"Precisely why you should thank us all now." Sophie banged her hand against the table to emphasize her words. "This is a moment of triumph. If you put it off until after the final, there's a chance it'll be a concession. Speech now!"

She could have argued against Sophie's questionable logic but seeing how excited her friends were, she didn't want to. "Well, since you've asked so nicely." Sophie stuck out her tongue, and Nyota laughed. "First, I'd like to thank Pete, without whom I wouldn't be so familiar with Welsh and for his trusting I'd be able to single out his voice when he started yelling out how to correct my mistakes."

Naresh slapped Pete on the shoulder as he ducked his head. His cheeks flamed when Sophie cheered and leaned over and kissed him squarely on the mouth.

"Second," Nyota continued, "My thanks to Naresh for introducing Pete to symbolic language. If he hadn't, our boy would never have been so obsessed with Wernicke's paradigm that he wouldn't have used it for all of his written communications over the last six months, and none of us would be able to read it on sight. Not needing the key to decipher that second round question, while not vital, certainly made things easier."

"Weren't you cursing my very existence over that just last week?"

"Oh, Naresh," Sophie sighed. "We tease because we love." She turned to Nyota, her expression confident and eager. "Aren't you forgetting someone?"

"That's right. I've left out someone very important. Someone without whom this would all have been impossible." Nyota smiled. "I'd like to thank myself."

"Hey!"

"That was all me in that third round, and I was brilliant."

"Your humility never ceases to amaze," Sophie said archly.

"It's what you like best about me." Nyota sat next to her and leaned over and kissed her cheek. "You know I love you. Stop pouting."

"Are you lot done?" Charlie frowned, the rhythm of his glass tapping against the table was sharp and staccato. "You're all acting like she did something difficult."

"That's not fair," said Pete. He started to stand, but Nyota squeezed his arm.

"It's not worth it," she whispered, and he sank back into his chair and glared at Charlie.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the delay." Jasper's voice boomed out over the pub's sound system. "We need to learn where the reset button is on this thing. But we've resolved our technical difficulties and are ready to proceed. If Mr. Haru and Mr. Spock would please come to the stage, we can get about our business of finding Oxford an opponent for the final."

The room erupted in shouts and whistles, and the tall Vulcan make his way to the stage, his head high and back straight. He was nearly 30 centimeters taller than Kyoto's representative, and Nyota smiled at the unintentionally funny picture they made. There was a moment of awkwardness as they were introduced to one another, neither man's culture given to the shaking of hands. They settled on inclining their heads towards one another and turned to their individual work screens, styluses in hand.

"You will have 30 seconds to study the lexicon and 120 seconds to translate as many phrases as possible," Jasper instructed. "Randy, where does our question for this round come from?"

"This question comes from the University of Toronto, Jasper. The Sumerian language was spoken in southern Mesopotamia from at least the 4th millennium, BCE. The language was lost for centuries and rediscovered in Earth's 19th century. It is the earliest known of Earth's written languages. The following key is for the eme-sal dialect, used exclusively by female characters in some literary texts."

A cuneiform key appeared on the central screen, transliterated into Standard.

"Your 30 seconds to study begins now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know up until this point, this thing has been a little light on Spock. The next chapter is from his POV, and after that, they finally start interacting for real. I know this is a bit of a slow start, but I promise that once it gets going, it gets really going. Thank you for hanging in there.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to save this for Saturday, but given my massive gaffe with chapter 3, I'm posting this now, hoping it will make up for the confusion.

"And the question goes to Starfleet Academy!" The sounds of cheering mixed with cries of disappointment exploded through the pub. Spock blinked slowly as he adjusted to the increased noise level.

Mr. King stepped forward again. "There's going to be a 20-minute break before the final showdown between Starfleet Academy and Oxford University begins. Bar's still open, so pick your poison and pick your sides."

Spock exited the stage and returned to the table where his teammates were gathered. He was greeted with a round of applause.

"That was beautiful." Martin stood and slapped him on the back. Spock suppressed his creeping irritation and disregarded the urge to shrug his shoulders in order to dislodge his roommate's hand. Even after sharing quarters with him for the better part of four years, he had not impressed upon Martin his distaste for casual physical contact.

Martin glanced over at the Oxford team. "I don't think she's going to be that tough to take down," he said, focusing on the team's solo round competitor, the girl from the pub the night before.

"I'm not sure I agree with you, Cadet." Commander Denise Parker was the co-chair of the Starfleet Academy Linguistics Department and was the adviser for the Academy's linguistics club and team. Spock had first encountered the Commander in her Linguistic Technology class, and he had found her instruction to be sufficiently intriguing that he also participated in two of her advanced seminars even though the subject matter had been outside of his main areas of study. He found her to be a demanding instructor but generous with her time and expertise, and she had proven to be an invaluable mentor.

"No disrespect intended Commander, but her performance hasn't been  _that_  impressive," Martin replied.

"And you base that on…"

"Observation, sir. She had help on the first question. And the second question involved a writing system based on algebraic equations. She's a mathematician. It's obvious she already knew the system, so she likely studied it. On the third question, her opponent completed more of the translation. The only reason she won that one was because he made mistakes."

"And your assessment, Mr. Spock?" He recognized Parker's query for what it was: a test of his judgment in evaluating a potential threat. He had watched the young woman from Oxford carefully that evening and did not need to consider his response.

"I do not agree with Mr. Schroeder."

"Explain."

"The Oxford competitor…"

"Uhura," Martin interjected.

Spock nodded. "Miss Uhura was able to identify her teammate's voice despite considerable auditory interference as a result of the traditional practice of spectator participation and obstruction. After two verbal repetitions of the provided lexicon, she had sufficient knowledge to correct two inaccuracies using only verbal cues which suggests exceptional aural acuity. Shall I continue?"

"Please."

"While Miss Uhura is more likely to be familiar with the form of Wernicke's paradigm for symbolic writing than one who studies only linguistics, her demonstrated mastery of the system is not standard, even for a mathematician, which suggests a broader linguistic background that her field of study suggests.

"The third question was decided based on accuracy. It is irrelevant that the competitor from Princeton translated a larger portion of the passage when he did not do so accurately. I believe the final round will be a challenge."

"I believe you are correct, Mr. Spock," Parker agreed.

Spock returned to his seat as Commander Parker explained to Martin the danger in underestimating an opponent, a concept in which he should have been well-versed as a first class command track cadet but a mistake Spock knew he continued to make. Cadets Solórzano and Gunheim had quietly removed to the bar, and Cadet Zhelen was engaged in conversation with some students from Harvard University at the next table.

Satisfied that he was not being observed, Spock allowed his attention to drift again towards the team from Oxford and the slender, dark-haired girl of obvious African heritage who had stumbled into him the night before. Uhura.

The establishment where the previous night's gathering had been held had perplexed him. The entry door, which still required manual operation, had multiple latches and knobs. While Spock was familiar with manual entries, it was not obvious which handle would successfully grant access to the tavern.

Martin had simply reached out and grasped a handle. The door opened easily, and he had looked at Spock and shrugged. "I can't really explain it. That one just made sense."

Spock's discomfiture had not ended at the door. Frames on the wall displayed pictures that had been cut into small interlocking pieces that were only partially reassembled; a track was suspended from the ceiling, and miniature representations of starships coursed across the room; none of the 37 timepieces scattered haphazardly throughout the room showed the same time; music blared from antiquated radio equipment affixed to the walls. He supposed that humans found this visual cacophony "whimsical." He did not.

Once inside, Gunheim and Solórzano had drifted towards the dartboards at the back of the pub, and Zhelen had joined acquaintances from another university at their table. Martin had pushed his way to the bar while Spock performed reconnaissance, searching for an empty table. That was when he first encountered the girl with the dark hair. Uhura. She was sitting with her teammates and laughing at a strange mix of one of the Brittonic languages and the gibberish poetry of Lewis Carroll recited by another of the table's occupants. Her long hair was loose, curling over her shoulders and brushing the upper swell of her breasts, and her subtle fragrance reminded him of white star flowers and soltar fruit.

He considered his involuntary hormonal and chemical reactions, an increased heart rate and a tightening in his chest that were, for him, hallmarks of sexual attraction. He dismissed them and continued his survey of the room. Martin had procured places at the bar, and as Spock approached, his roommate's attention was drawn to something behind his shoulder. When he commented on this, Martin disclosed a number of unpalatable details regarding his exploits with a human female he had met the prior year, Sophie Lansing. Spock had turned and followed the other man's gaze to the table he had observed earlier and the girl with the long, dark hair.

He had watched as she rose and made her way across the room and out of his line of sight. He did not see her again for 15 minutes and 25 seconds, and when she reappeared, he continued his observation. She stood at the end of the room, listening to something, seemingly entranced. Spock had not understood what she found so captivating. All he could hear was a dissonant tangle of voices and languages when he chose to acknowledge it.

She began to make her way back across the room, and Spock blocked out the clamor around him and forced his attention back to Martin. There was no purpose in his continued observation. Regardless of how physically attractive he found the young woman, he would only be in Oxford for five days, insufficient time to develop any type of familiarity or rapport. He gave her no further thought until she was thrown into him.

He had automatically gripped her arms to keep her from falling but realized his mistake as soon as he touched her skin. The voices he had been shutting out, the chaotic sound, became overwhelming, and he made his second mistake: He forced the noise away again, and brought himself to a place of silence.

As his mind began to calm, the girl panicked. His immediate concern been had that she had somehow been harmed. He had tightened his grip, wanting to reassure himself that she had not been injured, but he was momentarily distracted by her scent. His heartbeat quickened, and he swallowed as she first tried to pull away and then looked up at him.

Spock had asked the girl if she was unharmed. At first, she had struggled for words, but then she steadied herself and answered him. When she pulled away again, he let her go.

She was halfway across the room when it struck him that the girl had answered in him Vulcan, not Standard. And in the dialect of Ra'al province, specific to Vulcana Regar, the largest city on the planet. Common enough, but Terran instruction tended towards the dialect of his home of Shi-Khar, the planet's capital.

He watched her progress through the crowd, and although he knew it was coincidence, she stopped and looked back at him as if she could sense him watching her. He dismissed this as impossible but could not as easily rationalize how his sense of time had suspended when her eyes found his so that he was uncertain how long they had stared at one another.

He had thought to follow the girl, but Martin had clapped him on the shoulder, and jarred his vision. He looked for her again, but she had already gathered her possessions and was gone. This was when he realized that the voices around him no longer sounded like discordant noise. They were like…music.

Martin had taken the beer he had ostensibly ordered for Spock and led him over to the where the Oxford team was sitting, immediately drawing the pink-haired girl away from where she had been holding three human males in thrall. Spock surmised that this was Sophie Lansing.

He had participated in the table's conversation only minimally because the interplay of voices and languages around him was fascinating, and he found it difficult to divide his focus between the discussion and the vocal concerto filling his ears. He quickly became overwhelmed and had retired to the silence of the hotel room he shared with Martin and Zhelen. He had attempted to regain his self-mastery through meditation but had been unable to concentrate. Instead, he had fallen into a heavy and dreamless sleep.

-oOo-

Spock's application to Starfleet had been born out of a curiosity to better understand those parts of his nature that were influenced by his humanity, as much as an alternative should the Vulcan Science Academy reject him. He had not considered his sexuality to be one of those things until it had become clear that he and the Vulcan girl he had been betrothed and bonded to at the age of seven, T'Pring, were neither intellectually nor physically compatible.

Their bond had never been strong. As a child and adolescent, he had thought this was because he was somehow deficient, hampered in fortifying and maintaining the bond with T'Pring because of his human genetics. When she had suggested they become sexually intimate, Spock had suspected that was her attempt to strengthen their connection, and he had agreed, although at 16, he had never felt any physical interest in her.

Rather, his infrequent dreams, which he knew to be a part of his mother's heritage to him, had sometimes shown him other females: the human girl with the freckles and ready smile with whom he had spent time while visiting his mother's family on Earth; the attaché to the Betazoid ambassador with the graceful neck and raspy voice who had attended a reception his parents hosted in their home; a well-known ka'athyra player whose technique and eloquent hands he admired.

Their initial couplings had been indifferent and hurried with no attempts from either of them to prolong or personalize the act. Spock had hoped this would change with experience and familiarity. However, after only a few months, their joinings were marked only by a mutual desire to have it done, and they had agreed to end these explorations. After that, T'Pring became even more distant, closing herself off from him and effectively shuttering their mental bond, but not before Spock had become aware of another who was the focus of her thoughts, one who was of her choosing.

When he made the impulsive decision to decline his acceptance to the Vulcan Science Academy, Spock had released T'Pring of all obligation to him, telling her it was his hope that she find contentment without any duty owed to him.

Once at the Academy, Spock had realized how out of his depth he was when it came to human social interaction. He had spent time with his mother's family when his father's schedule for him had allowed, but these visits had been infrequent, sometimes only once every two or three years and with people who had known him his entire life and with whom he was in regular contact.

His first attempts to connect with human females were not successful. He had little experience in initiating casual conversation or participating in the exchange of banal pleasantries that made up a significant portion of human communication. He also experienced difficulty in interpreting the subtle intricacies of human behavior. He had incorrectly assumed that this would not a barrier as his mother was human, but then he had been approached by a fellow cadet requesting assistance with her mandatory programming requirement despite her more than adequate skill in that area.

He had been confused by her obvious dissemblance. His cousin Callie, who was also attending a university in the San Francisco Bay Area, had explained that the cadet was probably attracted to him but didn't know how to tell him. She had talked him through the first steps of human courtship.

While his relationship with the cadet had not advanced beyond a few uneventful dates, it had been a start, and Spock quickly learned that sexual intimacy without a connection on a mental level was as dissatisfying as his fumblings with T'Pring. Since then, he had avoided purely sexual encounters.

None of this changed the fact that he desired the girl with the long, dark hair and that there was insufficient time to establish anything but the most superficial of connections.

-oOo-

The morning after he first encountered Uhura, Spock had been himself again, and he allowed a brief moment of relief before stifling the emotion. It was in that moment of clarity that he became aware of a gnawing certainty that he had caused Uhura's distress the night before, and he was mortified at the liberty he had taken, however inadvertent.

While there might have been some justification for the intrusion into her mind given the suddenness and force of their encounter, his alteration of her thoughts was inexcusable. He had not experienced that kind of lapse since he was a child, and he spent several minutes trying to determine whether this had been because of the shock of finding the girl unexpectedly in his arms or because of his want of her.

Spock had considered whether he should approach Uhura before the first round to explain his infraction and offer his apologies, but after observing her with her team the next morning, she had not appeared to be suffering any ill effects from their brief contact. He had concluded that such a confession would cause the young woman far more distress than it would ease.

He chose to ignore the fleeting thought that his decision had been influenced by the way his fingers ached to feel her smooth skin again and the perceptible tightening in his groin as he had watched her cover her team's work screen in long lines of mathematical equations in a passable representation of his native tongue. In the end, Spock had remained silent, but he had sworn that he would maintain absolute control over his mind and emotions when he next encountered the girl with the dark hair. Which would be in 5 minutes and 14 seconds.

Looking over at Uhura, Spock again felt the involuntary reactions of his body that were becoming familiar in her presence and had only intensified with the discovery that she had a sharper intellect than he had first anticipated. He resolved to speak with her after the upcoming contest in order to gauge whether she might have any interest in him. He had not been physically drawn to a female this fervently in over two years, and the only logical course of action was to pursue her, so long as she was amenable. With this decided, his focus sharpened, and his shoulders straightened. Yes, he thought, this felt right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's talk about sex. I have never been a subscriber to the idea that Spock is some sort of innocent flower who's kept himself chaste and pure until his true love comes along. (I don't think this for Nyota either.) Or that he's clueless about sex or personal relationships. One of the things Nyota says in the ongoing comic series is that he ran away to Earth because he felt the pull of his humanity, so it only makes sense to me that one of the things he did was explore that side of himself (his humanity) with varying degrees of success.
> 
> Based on what's been seen in the series and the films that came before the reboot, it's reasonable that the Vulcan cultural embarrassment regarding Pon Farr is the loss of emotional control associated with it and not the sex. Rather, I think Vulcans approach sex in a straightforward manner. Sex begets children. Children are vital to the enrichment and advancement of the species. Therefore, sex is an important part of life and society, and it's not logical to pretend it doesn't exist or to be embarrassed by it. I mean, you don't end up with a population of 6 billion procreating only when biology tells you that you have to. Which isn't to say that it's something paraded about or not treated privately.
> 
> This view has largely informed my characterization of Spock in that regard. Given that humans are unlikely to become any less interested in sex, it would be something that he would investigate because we, as a species, place so much importance on it. And it wouldn't take long for him to realize that mindless screwing around just isn't his thing. His dilemma then becomes what to do when he is unable to simply suppress his attraction to a human girl whom he has just met. In the comic, Nyota also says at one point that he'll twist logic to the point that he can justify doing the illogical.


	6. Chapter 6

All right, people! One more round and it's done!" Jasper paced back and forth along the front of the stage, clearly ready for his role in the challenge to be over. "Let's get Oxford and Starfleet up here because I can't drink until one of these two comes out on top." The cheer that circled the room was, if anything, even more unruly than before the break, now that glasses had been refilled and bladders emptied.

A tall figure in red making his way to the stage plucked at Nyota's focus. The Vulcan cadet, Spock, and all thoughts of doing anything but watching him as he climbed the stairs up to the platform dissolved. Sophie leaned over and whispered. "You'd better get up there before Jasper starts whinging."

Still distracted, Nyota shook her head. "Don't let him fool you. He loves the attention."

"Excuse me, Miss Uhura?" While Nyota had been preoccupied, Jasper had spotted her in the crowd. "Are you waiting for a personalized invitation? Get up your lovely ass up here!"

The shouts of approval from around the room faded to little more than whispers when Spock's eyes met hers, and she forgot to breathe.

"Go on," Sophie hissed in her ear. "Just think of it as foreplay."

Nyota glared at her flatmate before rising from her chair and climbing up onto the stage.

"Now that we're all present and accounted for, let's get on with it. For Oxford, Miss Uhura." Jasper nodded at Nyota. "And representing Starfleet Academy, Mr. Spock."

She looked over at her opponent and found the Vulcan studying her. She had noticed that Spock had pointedly ignored the hand his first opponent offered him, so she was surprised when he closed the distance between them in two long strides and held out his hand to her. For a split second, she wondered if it might not be a ploy to unnerve her, but she reached out and firmly grasped his hand anyway.

His skin was smooth and dry, and his fingertips were unexpectedly calloused, not a trait Nyota had thought to encounter in an intellectual. He was warmer than she remembered from the night before. Too warm for a supposedly cold-blooded species. If he had been human, he would have been dangerously feverish. His grip tightened, almost imperceptibly, and for a brief moment, he leaned slightly towards her.

Spock was at least 15 centimeters taller than her, and Nyota resisted the urge to rise up on her toes to give herself just a little more height. She tipped her head back, not breaking eye contact. If he thought he was going to intimidate her with an imposing physical presence and an impassive manner, she’d have to correct that impression. Immediately. And just as quickly as he’d crossed to her, Spock released her hand and turned to the work screen on the opposite side of the stage, leaving Nyota a little unsure of what had just happened.

"Are you both ready?" Jasper asked.

"Yes." Spock was focused on the work screen in front of him.

Nyota picked up a stylus and turned to the screen next to her. "I'm good."

"As some of you may already know, the final round is a bit different than the earlier ones." Jasper moved to stand in front of the main display monitor at the center of the stage. "Those were sudden death, but crowning a champion calls for something a bit more lingering. We have five questions. The first to get three right takes the whole thing." He stepped to the side so that the central display was fully visible. "Randy, who's responsible for our first question?"

"This question comes from Lancaster University, Jasper." Randy was studying his PADD. "Here's a fun fact. Lancaster reports that the fastest time they've recorded for this question is 8 minutes, 23 seconds. There will be no time for studying the provided lexicon because the object of this question is to create the lexicon. The following list is comprised of numbers in the Beta Promethean language. They are in what would be the equivalent of alphabetical order."

A series of symbols appeared on the main screen.

"The second list is the corresponding numbers in Federation Standard in ascending order." A lengthy series appeared. "Your task is to figure out which is which. And if you complete the exercise with time left, you can take a crack at solving for x in the sample equation. You have two minutes starting now."

Nyota brought the problem set up on the screen and took a few seconds to study the symbols and numbers that made up the question, searching for patterns. She was still aware of the noise in the room around her, but the part of her brain that processed language sharpened and narrowed in on the puzzle presented.

Two numbers in the 50s; three ending in 5; four between 100 and 200; and so on, until she had mentally categorized each number. She then searched for the same configurations in the Beta Promethean set and started writing, crossing off numbers and symbols as she cleared them.

She was nearly halfway through the list when Jasper called time, jarring her back into the center of the light and noise of the crowded pub. She tapped the submit command on her screen and waited for the computer to score the answers. She looked over at Spock. The Vulcan was motionless, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression neutral.

Stepping forward, Jasper raised his hand for order, but the crowd only quieted marginally, and he had to raise his voice to be heard over the noise.  "The computer has completed the scoring. First blood has been drawn, and I am sorry to say that the first question goes to…Starfleet Academy, but only by a slender margin."

The sound of the crowd swelled, good natured hoots and jeers blended with whoops and applause and shouts of approval.  As the audience reacted, Nyota looked for her teammates. Sophie was making encouraging gestures, but her eyes went straight to Charlie. He was sitting back in his chair with his arms folded over his chest, his face like a stone, and his eyes almost dead as he stared at her. She spun back to her work screen. She could feel her cheeks burning, and she wiped her suddenly damp palms on the legs of her jeans.

The second question was a standard cypher using a numeric sequencing key, and when Spock took that question as well, Nyota closed her eyes and made herself take slow, deep breaths to quell the panic rising in her chest. She kept her focus on her work screen, not wanting to deal with Charlie's rancor.

"Are you okay?" Jasper whispered as he waited for the audience to quiet enough for Randy to announce the third question.

She looked over at him and managed a tight smile. "I'm fine."

He didn't look convinced. "Well, pull it together. It's okay if you lose, but you can't just give up." He turned to Randy and asked him to read the next question.

"This problem is presented by McGill University, and it's a doozy," Randy boomed. "This is a magic square. The square is seven by seven. The language is Federation Standard English. Obviously, there is no key. In order to  _luck_  your way into this one, you'll need to look over a four-leafed clover that you've overlooked before. The center square is a "t." There are two minutes for this question. Your time starts…now."

Nyota took a deep breath and formatted a checkerboard square on her screen, seven squares high and seven wide. And she stopped cold. The trick to a magic square was the clue. Sometimes it was straightforward, but in this case, figuring out the clue was part of the puzzle. She knew she was looking for seven 7-letter words around a central theme. The clue specified the number four, making it likely that the fourth letter of each word would spell out the fourth word in the sequence, the center word in both directions of the grid. The trick was finding where to start. She repeated the clue in her head. "To luck into this one, you'll need to look over a four-leafed clover…" Luck. Clover. Seven. And then she got it. Seven 7-letter words about luck, one with "t" as the fourth letter. Fortune.

She filled the word into the center of the grid. A muffled rumble of approval dimly registered at the back of her brain. She scribbled "rainbow" into the sixth slot and "fateful" into the seventh. "Triumph," which was stretching it and could very possibly be wrong but was the only word she could think of that fit, went into the fifth position, and after a few seconds' thought, "favored" filled in the second slot and "charmed" next to it in the third position. She was pondering the last word when time ran out.

"Put up your styluses and submit your answers please," Jasper instructed. When her screen wiped clean, Nyota closed her eyes and waited for the verdict. Her fingers itched to work numbers on the now blank surface in front of her, and she squeezed her hand around her stylus, her nails digging into her palm, to keep it still. She knew she only waited a minute or two at the most, but time seemed to move thick and slow.

Jasper's PADD chimed, and his voice carried across the pub. "Ladies and gentlemen, the computer has spoken. Point to Oxford."

Nyota couldn't stop the grin that spread over her face. She drew a breath and exhaled away some of her nervous tension. Her competitive streak was not pretty, and she didn't need it making her careless. She breathed deeply again in an effort to further steady herself when Jasper stepped forward to announce the next question. "Looks like we finally have an audio question. Randy, if you would be so kind."

Randy brought out two sound-dampening headsets and gave one to Spock and brought the other to her. "Our two competitors will be listening to the audio over headsets that block out the ambient noise, so this is the one question where there really can't be any help from the audience," he explained. "Unless, of course, you've brought an image projector with you. We'll also play the audio over the speakers for those of you playing along at home.

"This question comes to us from MIT. Moram is an ancient language spoken by the Lindar colony of Lam." Nyota's brow furrowed as Randy warbled. His tone rose and fell sharply as he spoke. "It is a tonal language," he continued. "In other words, the pitch of the voice when speaking affects the meaning. The language shares this feature with the Niger-Congo family of languages here on Earth, excepting, of course, most dialects of Swahili."

Nyota smiled. Kiswahili was one of the two official languages of Kenya, where she was from, along with Federation Standard, but she had also grown up hearing and speaking Kikamba. Kikamba was a tonal language.

"The lexicon is in Standard phonetic notation with Standard translation," instructed Randy. "There is also musical notation to indicate change in pitch. You will have 30 seconds to review the materials. The audio is one minute, and will begin immediately following the 30-second study period. Once the audio has played completely through, you will have two minutes to translate as much of the sample into Standard as possible. The quality of the audio is questionable, so you might want to clean it up a bit. Your time for study starts now."

Nyota turned her attention to the center screen and pulled her headset on. The key was similar to a piece of sheet music. Twelve lines of Standard musical notation appeared above the line of phonetic notation and its Standard translations. As she mentally sounded out the phonetic symbols, she wondered if the audio would sound familiar or if it would be something entirely new.

Without warning, a male voice sounded in her ears. His tones were soft and sliding, and she was relieved to hear familiar tonality, not the same as Kikamba, but not wholly foreign. While she had some difficulty fully appreciating the audio because of poor recording quality, ambient noise, and static, she heard enough to give her some important clues. There wasn't a single sound she couldn't reproduce, telling her that the language was likely wholly consistent with the human vocal apparatus.

When the audio track ended, Nyota pulled up the headset controls on her screen and attempted to filter out some of the interference in the recording and boost the frequency of the vocal track. As she started the playback again, she reviewed the musical notation for the tonal patterns she was hearing and worked her way through an initial translation of the recording. There were several parts of the audio where she made some assumptions because of poor sound quality she wasn’t fully able to correct, and she was nearly halfway through with the translation when time was called.

Nyota removed the headset and stepped back from the screen to examine her work. It was rough, but with only two minutes to both clean the recording and translate a language she'd never heard before whose meaning changed depending on the pitch of the speaker's voice, she was satisfied. She hit the submit command, and her screen cleared.

She wished she'd been able to spend more time with the recording. The portions that had been clear had been musical and comforting, and the subject of the recording had the general form and content of an epic poem, although the language itself could have been given to verse the way the spoken words tended towards music.

The announcement of the results came more quickly than she expected. "Oxford has tied things up with a masterful showing on the audio question. After Starfleet's early lead, it looks like we've got a horserace."

"Cymru am byth!"

The high-pitched cry rose above the noise of the audience, and Nyota looked over her shoulder and laughed. Pete was standing on his chair, pumping his fist, and Sophie was tugging on his other arm, trying to get him to sit down.

"Calm down, Davies. This isn't rugby," Jasper sighed. "We're moving on to the fifth and final question. This will decide it all. Unless it's a tie, in which case, we'll be here all night."

"Get on with it!" someone yelled, and the crowd hooted and cheered. Randy stepped forward when the noise faded again.

"This final question is a pretty straightforward exercise in conjugation and declension. Or is it? Shesto, the primary language of the Tezwan civilization, has one-hundred forty-six inflectional categories."

Nyota stole a quick glance at the other side of the stage, only half listening to the rest of the question. Spock was motionless, still in a way she'd never seen in a human. He stared at the screen in front of him, and her throat constricted when she thought about being the object of that kind of unwavering focus.

And then he blinked and slowly turned his head in her direction. It was as if he could feel her looking at him and knew what she was thinking. His expression didn't change, but she could feel his gaze drag heavily down her body. Her heart hammered against her ribs, and she felt a little lightheaded, struggled to breathe against the tightness in her throat.

Randy droned on at the edge of her awareness, and she dropped her eyes down to her hands where they fumbled with her stylus and forced herself to pay attention to the end of the question. The screen in front of her lit up.

The puzzle was simple enough; complete each passage as it was presented, but you wouldn't get the next passage until you had finished the one on the screen. The problem was that the lexicon contained conflicting information regarding noun and verb inflection, and while the passages started out simple, the subsequent ones built on the ones before and became more and more complex. With such a short time, it was mainly guesswork. Nyota began to work, and it felt like she had just started when Jasper called for them to submit their answers.

A sense of absolute calm settled around her when the computer registered her submission. She'd done her best. It was either enough or it wasn't. Regardless, there was still the opportunity to do better tomorrow, when it really counted and when she didn't have to do it in a spotlight.

Jasper's PADD chimed. "Looks like the results are in. Will it be Oxford?" The crowd erupted, and Nyota giggled. Jasper paused, and when the crowd settled down, he continued. "Or Starfleet?" The spectators roared again, this time louder and stronger in support of the Vulcan cadet.

Jasper looked at his PADD and was quiet for an endless minute. She didn't know whether he didn't like what he saw or if he was just being dramatic. His eyes flicked over to her, just for a second, and she knew.

"Congratulations Starfleet. The night is yours." The crowd exploded, and Nyota looked over at Spock. He was stock still, immobile, unmoving, and while his expression was as impassive as ever, he somehow seemed perplexed at the unrestrained exuberance of the audience.

"The bar is open for two more hours, so don't go scampering off," Jasper yelled over the noise. "Randy and I want to party with every single one of you. Somebody bring me a beer!"

"I'll grab that for you," Randy offered and jumped off the stage.

"That was easy.”  Jasper turned to Nyota and slung his arm around her shoulders. "Now, what do you say you ditch those rule-bleeders and we can go back to my room and test the spring potential of my mattress."

"Wow, Jasper. That's so…tempting." Nyota twisted and tried to extricate herself without seeming like she was trying to run away. He was mostly decent and didn't deserve that, although the cheap Charlie Spencer impression he'd taken to doing around her was a little aggravating. "I'm a little tired – "

"I know." Jasper tightened his grip and pulled her a little closer. "You did so well tonight, and that has to be overwhelming. And now…me. Come on, we've been differentiating for far too long."

"Miss Uhura." During her struggle to deflect Jasper, Spock had approached and now stood patiently, his hands clasped behind his back. "May I speak with you?"

The distraction was enough for Nyota to squirm out of Jasper's grasp. "Of course." She followed Spock with slow, deliberate steps. It gave her a few second to calm the tremulous flutter that had settled behind her breastbone. "Thank you. Jasper's a good guy, but…well." She trailed off, uncertain what to say.

"Mr. King's attentions appeared to be causing you distress."

"Annoyance, mostly. But I appreciate the rescue."

"A fortunate coincidence. However, my primary purpose in interrupting was to speak with you."

"Oh?" She took a tentative step closer to him and smiled.

"Affirmative." Spock leaned towards her, and the rigid lines of his back and shoulders softened, despite his unyieldingly upright posture. "I wished to express my appreciation. Our contest was most satisfactory."

Her smile faltered. "Oh." She wasn't sure what she’d expected him to say. Vulcans were hardly effusive, and “satisfactory” was…fine. And “most satisfactory” was practically gushing.  "Thanks. It was a good match. Congratulations."

He started to reply but hesitated when his attention was drawn towards the audience, to where his team was sitting. Martin was waving and beckoning to him.

"I guess your team is waiting for you." The thing fluttering in her chest twisted into a hard knot when she thought he might walk away, and her mind scrabbled for something to say that didn't strike her as pointless. "Unless…

"Yes?" he asked quickly.  He didn't walk away. Instead, he turned back to her. His eyes narrowed, the way they crinkled at the corners softening his features. He had nice eyes. And a really nice mouth, especially the way his lips almost pouted when he spoke. And now he was staring at her, waiting for her to respond to whatever he’d just said.

"I'm sorry. What?"

"I asked if you would please elaborate," he repeated, his expression somehow bemused, even though it hadn't changed.

"Oh."

"You say that with some frequency."

"I do not."

"You have uttered that particular interjection three times in the last two minutes and 43 seconds."

"Oh." Nyota couldn't help but laugh at herself when she heard the word come out of her mouth again. It seemed that proximity to the Vulcan cadet melted her brain a little, which only made her giggle harder.

Spock's mild expression slowly dissolved. The small space between his brows creased, forming a nearly perfect "V." "I do not understand."

"I'm sorry," she stuttered, immediately sobering.

"There is no offense." Despite his reassurance, he sounded vaguely unsatisfied. "I find certain facets of Terran humor elusive."

"I was laughing at myself more than anything being actually funny."

"Ah."

"I was going to ask if you had time to go over your answer to that last question with me? I'd like to see where I went wrong."

Spock studied her for a moment and then nodded. "My team does not require my presence. I was also curious as to your responses to the third and fourth questions. Perhaps we could review those as well?"

"Okay." She could feel the smile creeping back across her face. "I'll see if I can get Jasper to pull up the answers."

"Mr. King and Mr. Stewart provided the access codes for the internal network when they requested my assistance in calibrating their equipment." Spock reached inside his jacket and withdrew a small PADD. "If you have no objections?"

Nyota shook her head. Spock entered the requisite passcode into his PADD and brought up a split screen displaying both their responses to the first question. He angled the screen towards her, and Nyota moved closer to him to better review the results. She was overly aware of how near their hands were as they both looked over the small device Spock held. She held herself stiffly to avoid any inadvertent physical contact, and his posture was just as rigid.

It became immediately apparent when reviewing the first question that they were well matched. Differences in their work were minimal. The main reason Spock had won that question was that he had translated more than she had. Nyota chewed at the inside of her lip while she studied his work. She'd hoped that time wasn't going to be an issue when she was on her own, but she hadn't expected Spock, either.

They spoke quietly, questioning one other about the choices they had made in approaching the problem and explaining their thought processes. She forgot herself in the work, and her stance relaxed, and she made herself ignore how Spock's posture softened, his attention as much on her as on the PADD they worked from.

-oOo-

Martin suspected he'd overreacted when the gomer playing emcee announced, finally, that Starfleet Academy had won the pub quiz. He'd pounded the table and jumped to his feet, whooping loudly in his excitement and relief. Not that he was the only one. Gunheim had risen with a scream of delight while Solórzano had visibly relaxed. Even Commander Parker had slammed her palm against the table in satisfaction.

He felt completely justified. He'd worked too long and too hard and had put up with too many undeserved second or third or even fourth place rankings in his classes and during drills and sims to not have everything go 100% as planned with the Invitational.

Winning this thing for Starfleet might be the last chance he'd get to distinguish himself before assignments started to roll out in advance of graduation and commissioning in May. Spock, of course, already had his assignment, serving as science officer on the USS Yorktown under Chris Pike. It was a cherry posting; senior staff to boot. And under Pike, who'd single-handedly preserved a tenuous peace between the Federation and the people of the Vestios system when he’d forcibly relieved his commanding officer for instigating an unprovoked attack on a Vestian military vessel. Serving under Pike could launch a career.

Not that the Vulcan hadn't earned it. Academically, he was the top of their class. He'd excelled in sims, training exercises, and war games. And he was the fleet's first Vulcan. He probably could have gotten his own ship if he'd asked for it.

Not that Martin was a slouch academically, but being in the top 15% of the class didn't get you much notice. Not without something else, and his resume was sorely lacking in that something else, though not for trying. He needed this win to boost his chances for a prime first posting. He'd been planning the team's strategy for nearly a year, and it had to be perfect.

The admittedly decent free beer had helped when Spock lost the third and fourth questions to Oxford. And if his victory wasn't the definitive statement of the team's superiority it could have been, it was still a win and a warning that Starfleet wasn't there to screw around that year. Still, he had to make sure Spock's uncharacteristic stumble was just a fluke and not something, well, something else.

Martin gulped the last of his beer and moved away from the table, where his team fielded congratulations and well-meant ribbing, to a spot where he could better scan the room for Spock, who had yet to return to his team.

When he saw his roommate was still on the stage speaking with Uhura, Martin sighed. It figured Sophie's bitchy little friend would corner him. Based on their encounter at Sophie's that morning, Martin wouldn't be surprised if she was ranting at Spock about his having some sort of unfair advantage because he was Vulcan. He started towards the stage, a sort of one-man rescue party.

When he was certain Spock could see him, Martin waved, drawing both his roommate’s and Uhura's attention. He signaled for Spock to rejoin the team and the party that was growing around their table, but the Vulcan pointedly turned his back and continued his conversation with the Oxford girl. Her expression shifted from flustered giggles to thoughtfulness and finally turned into a brilliant smile. Spock drew his PADD out from inside his coat, and the two bent their heads over the device, Uhura studying the screen intently, and Spock focused on her.

Martin groaned. This was not happening. He retreated to the bar to regroup, have another pint, and try get a handle on what was going on up on the stage.

He hadn't been concerned when Spock had excused himself from the pub the night before. His roommate frequently handled "necessary social interactions" that way, arriving when the function was already in full swing, pretending to have a drink or maybe two if the conversation interested him, and leaving quietly after ensuring that his presence and participation had been noted. That was something he'd struggled with his first year at the Academy, and Martin liked to think he'd helped him understand the "illogical" human need for interpersonal connection, even in professional situations.

During the prep period that morning, he'd noticed Spock watching the Oxford work area but assumed his attention had been drawn there by the handwritten Vulcan calligraphy Uhura used to test the work screens. Again, Spock's actions hadn't been unusual. It was uncommon enough to see a non-Vulcan using any of the written forms of the language, let alone the more formal calligraphic figures, that it was likely to attract his attention, however briefly.

But then there'd been the way the Vulcan countered him when debating over Uhura with Parker. And when the round began, Spock not only offered his hand to the girl but stood really close to her, well inside her personal space. He'd also pulled himself up to his full height, forcing Uhura, who was in no way short, to crane her neck to look at him.

How could he have missed it? Spock once said he was only average height for a Vulcan male, and Martin had seen first-hand his roommate's unconscious tendency to maximize his stature around certain girls. Martin had teased him about it when he'd finally figured it out. Spock, of course, had refused to discuss the matter. That was how Martin knew he'd hit a nerve.

It was clear from her reaction that Uhura had interpreted both the physical contact and Spock's looming presence as intimidating, given the way she'd bristled before shaking his hand. Probably not the reaction Spock had intended. It would have been funny if he wasn't starting to suspected that Spock was off his game because of the girl.

As far as Martin knew, his roommate hadn't gotten any since ending a short-lived relationship with a nursing student a year ago. Not that Spock had told him anything, but the scuttlebutt on campus was that the girl, Christine, had been planning their wedding and naming their kids. And if that's what happened, Martin didn't blame Spock for turning tail, especially after the string of messages she'd left at their room after the breakup. It was enough to make any man gun shy, let alone his roommate who always seemed at a loss over the finer points of human emotional reaction.

Maybe that's what it all came down to. Maybe Spock just needed to get laid, and he'd fixated, intentionally or not, on someone as unlike his ex as possible, at least physically. If that's all it was, he might be able to help with that.

Martin finished his drink and looked around for Sophie. Her pink hair was like a beacon, even in the dim and dreary light of the pub, and he homed in on her position near the front of the room. Martin grinned, and Sophie seemed to glow a little bit more when he slid up next to her.

"Hey, beautiful." He pressed a quick kiss to her cheek.

"Hey yourself, gorgeous. Good result, right? For both of us?"

"Great result." Sitting on the end of Oxford's table, he had an unimpeded view of Spock and Uhura where they were still bent over the PADD. Uhura pointed at something on the small screen and shook her head. Spock's expression was unusually animated. She hadn't finished speaking before he broke in. The uncharacteristic show of…what? Excitement? Annoyance? Enthusiasm? It was subdued, but it was there. The girl definitely got to him, that was for sure. And there was only one thing to do about that. Anything for the Fleet.

Martin nodded towards the stage. "So, what's up with your girl?"

Sophie followed his gaze and made no effort to hide her grin. "I suspect she's pumping your boy for information."

"Think she'd be up to pumping him for anything else?"

"Cheeky." Sophie hit him on the arm.

"Sorry."

"No, I love a dirty mouth," she said, her tone straightforward. "Is that the only reason you came over? To see if I'd pimp out my flatmate? Because I fail to see how I stand to benefit from that arrangement." The look she gave him was appraising and calculating. Martin could practically hear the gears grinding away inside her head, and he grew more and more uncomfortable under her scrutiny.

"I just thought we could help each other out," he said, scrambling for more solid ground. "You told me this morning she could use a good lay. And Spock's performance tonight was subpar. No offense to your friend, but he shouldn't have lost a single question."

"Oh, there's even more incentive. Set my best friend up with someone with subpar performance to help out your team."

"So, I take it that's a no."

Sophie sighed and turned back to the stage. "It should be a no. Hell, it  _would_  be a no, if she wasn't already moist for him."

"That mouth," Martin said with a faint smile, and he leaned in to kiss her.

"I know." Sophie's voice was soft against his lips. "It's a turn on, isn't it? Such a burden."

"Are we still on for dinner tomorrow?"

"And other activities."

"I was thinking we could meet for drinks first. You bring your roomie. I'll bring mine, and we let nature take its course."

"I'm not sure nature's going to be enough." Sophie gestured to the stage where Spock and Uhura now stood facing one another, and based on her expression and abrupt hand motions, appeared to be engaged in some sort of conflict. Not that Spock would get worked up, but Martin could see they were in disagreement about something.

"That's exactly why we're going to be there instead of just locking them up together in a storeroom."

"Uh oh." Sophie stood up straighter. Uhura had taken Spock's PADD and was entering something on the screen. Martin could almost hear the force of her fingers against the screen. She thrust the PADD back at the Vulcan, lifted her chin indignantly, and stalked away, heading straight for Sophie with a full head of steam. Spock stared after her, his head listing to one side the way it did when he found human behavior particularly baffling. Those two couldn't be left to their own devices. They wouldn't know what to do with each other. Maybe he should prep some flow charts just in case.

When Uhura reached the table, she stopped and spun on Martin. "No offense, but your friend is unreasonable. And pigheaded. And he doesn't want to hear anything he doesn't already think.

"Yeah, well, he  _is_  Vulcan." Martin shrugged and turned to Sophie. "So, I'll see you tomorrow night, if not sooner."

"I'll comm you when and where."

"Good match, Uhura," Martin called back over his shoulder. He reached his team's table at the same time as Spock who was engrossed in whatever Uhura had entered on his PADD.

"Here's our champ!" Martin slapped Spock on the shoulder. The Vulcan tensed up at the unexpected contact, and Martin marveled that after living on Earth and around humans for nearly four years, he still wasn't used to casual physical contact. He craned his neck to see what was on the screen. "What's so…fascinating?"

Spock looked at him, impassive. "Nothing of your concern," he said, his voice toneless, and slid his PADD back into his jacket pocket. He turned to Commander Parker, who had just said goodbye to the Oxford professor from the math department who had welcomed everyone at the beginning of the evening. "Commander, if you have no objections, I wish to return to the hotel."

"Dismissed, cadet," Parker told him. "And good job tonight."

Spock nodded and left without further good-byes. Martin sat down with the rest of his team and watched him make his way across the pub and out the door, his back ramrod straight and his movements stiff and spare. Oh, yeah. The guy had it bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everybody for hanging in there for the six chapters it's taken to get these two to actually talk to one another. And then immediately argue. You'll find out about what in the next chapter. And find out what message Nyota left on Spock's PADD.
> 
> Also, thanks again to my beta, CB, who may or may not be reading this because he read the first draft. And the second. And the third. He might be over this chapter.
> 
> And I don't know why I feel that I have to explain when I'm just making stuff up, but I do. I know only the bare minimum about linguistics study. Like that it exists. And stuff. So to anyone who really knows their stuff, sorry for the mistakes. One of these days, I'll write about something I actually know stuff about and won't have to feel like I have to go into a detailed explanation of what I don't know.


	7. Chapter 7

Spock stood in the middle of the Starfleet Academy work space on the second day of the Invitational, methodically reviewing his answer to the sixth and final question of the official solo round, a difficult translation based on an audio sample of Sho'jt Sampi, an extinct language from the Uransu system which was the basis for half of the questions that day.

However, the key that provided both the phonetic guide for the audio and examples and translations of the written form of the language had been limited in scope, and it had been necessary to draw conclusions based on the scant amount of information given. This was further complicated by what Spock suspected were deliberate ambiguities regarding the grammatical categories affecting declension and conjugation, including verbal and non-verbal agreement.

He appreciated the irony that the same issue had caused Uhura difficulty during the informal pub challenge the night before. When they had compared their answers to the  question, there had only been one difference, a simple point of grammar that was logically subject to two interpretations. His approach had been correct, and hers had not. Although her reasoning had been sound, in the end, she had misinterpreted one of the more subtle cues within the passage itself. But Uhura had refused to accept that his was the more logical approach.

The human female had become increasingly agitated in the face of his calm and rational explanation until she had forcefully taken his PADD, made an entry on the screen, and shoved it back into his hands. She had then stalked off the stage to where her female teammate was in intimate conversation with Cadet Schroeder.

Only when Uhura had reached them had Spock been able to turn his attention away from her to what she had written on his PADD. Based on her reaction, he had expected some form of critical tirade, but her message had both surprised and elated him, much to his dissatisfaction. He had needed several deep, centering breaths before trusting his emotional control enough to read the note. Uhura had given him her comm code with instructions to contact her if he was "willing to have an open-minded discussion" about the next day's round, and she had signed her message with her given name, Nyota.

For the second night in a row, he had been unable to quiet his mind sufficiently for meditation. Sleep had eluded him as well as he had not been able to focus on anything other than repeatedly attempting to parse her meaning.

Today, despite his lack of sleep, Spock was again confident that he had worked through each ambiguity in the translation and had reconciled them not only with the provided key but with his work on the prior questions in the set, ensuring his answer was internally consistent, one of the expectations for this series of questions. While there were still three places where the correct verbal agreement was subject to multiple, equally logical interpretations, he felt certain he had considered each variable and was satisfied with his response. He uploaded his submission to the server which immediately powered down his work screen and lowered the perimeter barrier.

As the opaque, soundproof field retracted into the floor, the silence of the shielded work area was replaced by the low-level hum of the spectators, equipment, and the officials circulating throughout the room. He looked over at the Oxford work area. He had hoped, although it was not logical to expect, that Nyota would finish before he was released, but the barrier around her team's space remained in place. Spock determined to contact her as soon as he had access to his personal comm and arrange a meeting, perhaps over the evening meal, if she was amenable.

Martin, who was holding his personal effects, was pacing back and forth along the edge of the competition floor, his eyes trained on Spock as he waited for the proctor to verify his submission codes, check his equipment and then excuse him. When Spock was released, he exited the work area, and Martin fell into step beside him, easily keeping pace despite Spock's long strides.

"How was the round?"

"Were the questions not displayed on the main screen?"

"They were."

"Then as you are knowledgeable as to the content of the problems posed and are familiar with my capabilities, I presume you are requesting my assessment of my performance, given that you already possess sufficient information to answer your own query."

Martin stared at him for an extended length of time and then handed him his comm and PADD. "I'm meeting Sophie and her roommate for drinks later. You're going, no arguments."

"I require further explanation."

"I have it on good authority that if you play your cards right, you could be very lucky tonight."

Spock puzzled over Martin's statement, working to break down the idiom. Phrases that depended on culturally agreed upon but unstated meaning continued to elude him despite his human mother and even after living and working with humans in close quarters for several years. He stopped when he deduced Martin's meaning. "You are referring to sexual relations."

"Bingo."

Not bothering to request clarification of how a game of chance related to their conversation, Spock resumed his retreat. He changed course in an attempt to separate himself from Martin so that he could contact Nyota, but the other cadet continued to follow him. Martin's tendency to interfere in his private concerns was one of their primary areas of friction despite repeated requests to the contrary.

"Martin," he began when he was certain his tone would not betray the too-familiar irritation that threatened to upset his emotional balance, "you have made your arguments regarding the advantages of casual sexual activity on numerous occasions and with considerable conviction. However, I agree with neither your premise nor your conclusions in this matter."

He exited the hall through a rear door into the cool, overcast afternoon. Martin trailed him down the street leading back to their hotel but remained silent, so Spock continued.

"You have also failed to consider whether I am available. It is my intention to seek other company this evening."

"I'm pretty sure ponytail already has plans tonight."

Spock stopped again and turned Martin's statement over in his mind. It had been late when Nyota had left him on the stage the night before. Given her message, it was unlikely that she would have made other arrangements before allowing him a reasonable amount of time to respond, particularly since she had been on the competition floor for the majority of the morning and had still been there when he had been released.

"Explain."

Martin grinned in the manner Spock associated with his being pleased with himself. "Who do you think Sophie's roommate is? I met her at the apartment yesterday."

He considered the improbability of Martin having anticipated his intent, and when he did not respond, the other cadet resumed his attempts to persuade him.

"I watched you with her last night. The handshake. Leaning over her. Getting close to her by working from the same PADD? Is any of this ringing a bell? There were plenty of clues. Anyway, girls like that aren't available forever, so I decided to do you a favor and take the matter out of your hands. Now, are you in?"

Spock thought about the possible alternatives to Martin's plan. He could refuse to attend, but then Nyota might interpret that as disinterest. He could contact her himself and suggest other arrangements, which had been his intention, but what if her invitation only extended to the discussion of the competition and was not an expression of personal interest? Perhaps Martin’s precipitous act in arranging a group "date" was preferable to a more private meeting. The presence of other humans, Nyota's roommate in particular, would also allow him to engage her as was most natural and give him the opportunity to determine her intent towards him. Both of these were favorable factors given the brief duration of their acquaintance. He could then decide whether to make his own interest clear. Although it had not been his plan, the evening orchestrated by Martin appeared to have several desirable advantages.

"Affirmative," he answered and turned and again began to walk back to the hotel.

"You're welcome," Martin called after him, but he paid little attention as he mentally structured his afternoon to better prepare for the evening's activities. He had researched running routes before arriving in Oxford and one in particular promised to provide a suitable challenge. Attending to his physical conditioning was warranted, as were several hours of meditation to center himself and reinforce his emotional controls. And if time allowed, there were substantial sections of code in the training simulation program he was rewriting that required attention. As he approached the hotel, Spock was satisfied that his afternoon would be productive.

-oOo-

When the barrier dropped around the Oxford work area, Nyota was surprised she'd used nearly all of the allotted time to complete the round. She'd been inside the questions so deeply, she hadn't really noticed the passage of time. That happened a lot when her mind was fully engaged.

As the invigilator checked her out, she looked over to where Starfleet's work area had been moved from the day before. It was open and deserted. She'd expected Spock to finish early, but she still felt a little emptier when she saw he wasn't there. Maybe her display last night had cooled whatever interest he might have had in her.

The invigilator seemed to be taking forever, and she shifted from one foot to the other, bobbing lightly on her toes. More than once, she had to stop her herself from drumming her fingers against the table, from tapping her leg, from rubbing her arms. But given the look the invigilator gave her as she verified her codes and checked her equipment, she'd failed miserably at keeping her impatience hidden.

After what seemed like a small eternity, particularly when compared to how time had disappeared during the round, she was excused, and she headed to where she'd arranged to meet Sophie. Nyota sped up until she was practically running through the hall to retrieve her comm and check her messages.

Her flatmate waited at the bottom of the wide, turning stone staircase that led from the entry lobby into the hall holding her coat and bag. "I watched the whole thing, and you were brilliant!" Sophie engulfed her in a sloppy, loose-limbed hug.

"I think you're right."

"Well, look who's full of themselves."

Nyota wobbled when Sophie released her and shoved her things into her arms. "I thought you said I was brilliant." She fumbled with her coat, nearly dropping it as she dug for her comm which was buried at the bottom of her bag where she'd tossed it that morning when her message queue had been disappointingly empty.

"When I say it, it's a compliment, but when you say it, it's pure ego," Sophie told her airily. Nyota ignored the scowl the other girl aimed at her and scrolled through her messages. And then Sophie poked her. "Anything exciting?"

"You mean more exciting than you telling me I'm an egotist?" The ringing hollowness in Nyota's chest burrowed deeper as her fingers skimmed impatiently over her comm screen.

There were the usual announcements and updates from her college, a message from Jasper suggesting they get together so he could "study" her curves and angles, and another from her friend Candace who was having a bunch of girls over that night for wine and holovids. But there was nothing from Spock. She told herself that it couldn't have been more than a half hour since he finished, and he just hadn't had a chance to contact her yet, but it did nothing to reassure her.

"Anything exciting?" Sophie repeated, peering over her shoulder.

Nyota snapped her comm closed. "Jasper's on the prowl again, and Candace is having people over tonight."

"Well, you'll want to let them both know you're not available." Sophie grinned. Her smile was just a little too wide, and her eyes a little too bright. "I've figured out what you're going to do to make yesterday morning up to me."

"You mean my, and I quote, 'brilliant' performance wasn't good enough for you?"

"Please, you only did as expected.  Yesterday's queen bitch routine is still unrepented for."

Sophie walked out onto the street, and Nyota hurried after her, becoming tangled up in the long strap of her bag when she tried to sling it over her head and pull her coat on at the same time.  She didn't like the look Sophie was giving her or the smile that was only growing more self-satisfied.  "I hesitate to ask."

"Would I ask you to do anything you didn't want to do?"

"Do I even need to dignify that?"

"Ha, ha." Even though her tone was flat, Sophie's innocent, gleeful expression didn't waver. "It's nothing. It's practically less than nothing. Martin's bringing his Vulcan along on our date, and you're coming as our fourth."

"No." Nyota stopped in the middle of the pavement and twisted the strap of her bag around her hand. She'd given Spock her comm code hoping he might contact her, even if it was just to talk about the round. She had no interest in being forced on him like an arranged marriage.

It took Sophie a few steps to realize she alone, and when she did, she spun around and stormed back to Nyota. "I don't recall giving you a choice. And I also don't see why there's a problem. You two seemed pretty cozy last night."

Nyota didn't answer. Sophie got like that sometimes, ordering everybody around, including her, and even after knowing her for more than a year, Nyota was still searching for a way to stand her ground without starting a major confrontation.  The best way she’d found so far was to just keep quiet, so she only tugged the front of her coat closed and folded her arms over her chest.

Seeing that she was getting nowhere, Sophie dropped her high-handed manner. "I think this could be really good for you. You like him; I can tell.  And you haven't actually liked anyone in a long time, but it's your decision. If you're in, I need you ready for drinks at half after six. If you're not, give me some warning, so I can rearrange things."

Sophie turned and walked away, and Nyota stared after her until she disappeared around the next corner, not certain what to do. She looked around, noting how relatively empty the streets were since the University was between terms. At least she was near her college. She walked the few blocks to Balliol with a vague idea of having lunch. Maybe food and the quiet of the library would help her figure it out.

-oOo-

Three hours later, Nyota was hiding in the Balliol Library stacks. She loved the beautiful, old building with its elaborately carved bookcases, decorative plaster ceilings, and paned and leaded windows. The dry, clean smell of the old-fashioned paper and leather-bound books reminded her of her grandfather's study back home. That she had access to the library 24 hours a day only made it better.

She'd become well-acquainted with the building her first year when her roommate at the time started sneaking her boyfriend into their room. Although she hadn't been sexually inexperienced when she left home, the live sex show on near-constant rotation some nights was beyond her comfort zone, and she'd pulled at least one all-nighter in the library almost every week.

In a way, she was glad because when she started at the Academy, she knew sleep deprivation wouldn't be anything she couldn't handle. Even when she'd started seeing Charlie after her first term, she'd sneak away from his flat hours before dawn to hole herself away with the books, immersed in languages or numbers.

At least living with Sophie, she had her own bedroom and damned good sound-proofing. But that first year, the library had been her sanctuary.

Today, she had tucked herself away in a narrow aisle in front of a window overlooking the Garden Quad. At first glance, she appeared to be studying the network of complex figures on the PADD she was bent over, but her mind was somewhere else. Nyota turned the problem of Spock, and Sophie's grand scheme, over and over and examined it from every side until she was mentally exhausted and tempted to just chuck the whole thing and go to bed. She'd almost decided to do just that when her comm buzzed.

It was probably some contrite, funny message from Sophie. Maybe something with pornographic animation backed by an Orion technobeat. She tapped the PADD screen to transfer the message to her comm and opened it.

But it was only Jasper wondering why she hadn't responded to his earlier text, and she deleted the message. He was partly responsible for her current dark mood because he'd positioned himself near the door of the Junior Common Room. She'd been trying to avoid him, and there'd been no way to get lunch without passing right by him. The only reason she hadn't walked right into him was because his voice carried, and she'd heard him well before he could see her.

Bed was seeming like a better and better idea, but she had to figure out this thing with Spock. And before Jasper started combing the library for her, which was usually the next step in his ritual stalking. Maybe she could just ask Sophie to get Spock's comm code from Martin, and she could ask the him if he was interested in coming over and joining her between the sheets.

That thought slammed down in front of her like a wall, and she could almost hear her brain skidding to a stop. God, Sophie was such a bad influence.

There couldn't be any other reason she'd even think about going to bed with someone she'd just met and didn't know. Even if Spock was tall, and lean, and really handsome. And intelligent. He was probably really interesting, too. And he smelled good.

Nyota shook herself and redoubled her efforts to focus on her notes, but now that she had imagined him in her bed, she found it hard to think of anything else. Anything except for the heat she felt when he looked at her and his calloused fingertips scraping over her skin. What would he do if she asked?

With a groan, she buried her face in her hands, and she stayed there, frozen, her breath warming the hollow created between her palms and her lips. She was only going to make herself crazy trying to figure out what he was thinking. She'd given him her comm code, and he hadn't used it. That was that. Even if he was only interested in her on an intellectual level, he would have contacted her by now. Wouldn't he?

Except, he'd agreed to drinks, and if he already knew he was going to see her that night, there'd be no need to communicate with her earlier. And what if Martin had railroaded him into it the way Sophie had with her? In that case, she'd be in exactly the same fix.

Maybe if she spent a little more time with him, she could figure out whether this thing she felt around him was completely in her head. If it was, they could still talk. He  _was_  probably really interesting, growing up on a different planet, in a culture she'd only had a very narrow, peripheral exposure to up until now. The news media never talked about him, either, which was puzzling since he was the first Vulcan to enlist in Starfleet since its inception. That would be fascinating to hear about. If nothing else, she could ask him about the Academy. And it couldn't hurt to wear nice knickers, just in case.

She looked out the window. It was starting to get dark. If she was going, she had to get moving. Nyota grabbed her PADD and was shoving it into her bag when she heard footsteps behind her.

"Uhura," Jasper stage-whispered from the end of the aisle. "Thank god, you're consistent. I hadn't heard from you, so I thought we might discuss this face-to-face."

Nyota pulled her jacket on and squared her shoulders. "I'm sorry, Jasper. I already have a date tonight." She brushed past him and started towards the exit before he had a chance to react. If she was lucky, he wouldn't follow her.

-oOo-

"I know, I know. I'm late. Jasper cornered me in the stacks and I had to get rid of him." Nyota shed her hat and coat and kicked off her shoes at the door.

Sophie glanced up at her from her perch on the sofa where she sat painting her toenails. "You should have never kissed him that one time. And you're too nice to him now. That's why he keeps coming back."

"I finally had to be blunt with him, so we'll see if it takes." Dealing with Jasper had taken even longer than she'd thought it might, and he'd followed her halfway home before she'd convinced him to let her alone. "I'm going to take a shower and wash my hair."

Nyota shut her bedroom door behind her, stripped off her clothes, and wrapped her dressing gown around her. She had just pulled her hair down from the ponytail she'd put it in that morning and was rubbing her scalp to try and get the blood flowing back into her head when her door swung open. Sophie stood framed in the doorway, her toes flexed away from the floor to keep from smudging her toenails.

"You're going?"

"Of course," She slipped past her roommate and hurried down the hall to the bathroom. Sophie hobbled after her as quickly as her varnish-wet toes would let her, but Nyota shut herself in programmed her shower cycle. "Why wouldn't I go?" she called through the door.

She stepped under the nozzle and let the hot water soak her from head to toe and chase off the chill from her short walk home. This might have been her favorite part of living with Sophie. The showers at the college were sonics, and they never made her feel truly clean, although there was a trade off in the number of products she needed to achieve the sleek style she wore most frequently. She scrubbed herself down and then carefully cleansed and conditioned her hair, working from her roots down to the ends to avoid tangling the dark, heavy strands.

At the end of the water cycle, the dryer hummed to life and evaporated the moisture from her skin and hair as quickly as she'd drenched it. When she stepped out of the stall, she wrapped her hair around her hand, piled it on top of her head, and studied her reflection in the mirror. She liked her hair up. It kept it out of her face while she was working, and her mother always told her it let the world see how pretty she was. But all mothers said things like that, and her scalp still ached from how tightly pulled she'd worn it all day. Down would have to do.

Returning to her room, Nyota found that clothes had been left out for her across her bed. "Sophie, what's this?"

"Your wardrobe's hopeless. You dress like a student." Sophie's answer was muffled by the wall that separated their bedrooms.

"I am a student."

"Don't worry. It's mostly your own clothes. I just added something slightly more grown up. It's a little obvious, but not slutty."

"So nothing you'd wear."

"Precisely."

Nyota inspected the small pile of clothing and immediately spotted what didn't belong, a puddle of wine-red silk just thick enough to be opaque. "There's no bra," she yelled through the wall.

Sophie appeared at the doorway wearing a one-shouldered, skin-tight, sheer dress in navy blue. The fabric was shot through with silver, and it sparkled like the night sky. Under the dress, she was completely naked, bare to the world except for the almost completely transparent cloth.

"You wear a bra with that shirt, and I'll have to kill you," Sophie told her. "Speaking of slutty, what do you think?" she asked, gesturing to the dress she wore.

"Please tell me you're going to wear something under that. That's too much nipple for drinks."

"I was afraid of that. Don't worry. I'll take care of it."

"More than those star-shaped pasties from last month."

"You're no fun," Sophie pouted and retreated to her own room, leaving Nyota to inspect the clothes she had picked out for her.

The knickers were black and lacy and barely effective as underthings. They had been a gift from Sophie for her 19th birthday the past December, but at least they were hers. The jeans were hers, too. The metallic gray denim hugged her leg from hip to ankle like a second skin and was generally reserved for nights out. Which this was. The soft suede ankle-high boots were low-heeled and steady on the sometimes uneven streets in the oldest parts of town.

And then there was the scrap of red silk. Which she didn't want to touch because her palms were suddenly clammy and damp. Besides, she didn't need to pick it up to see why Sophie didn’t want her to wear a bra.

Nyota stood rooted to the floor while she stared at the almost sheer fabric. It was, of course, only a suggestion. Sophie wasn't going to force her to wear it. After all, it was only drinks. But she really wanted it to be more than drinks, and her heart skipped ahead of her as she fingered the soft material. It almost seemed to glow. God, she hoped she wasn't about to make a fool of herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for hanging in there. I appreciate each and every one of your kudos and comments and hope you're still enjoying this.
> 
> From here on out, batten down the hatches. Things are starting to ramp up, and they're not going to slow down.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All dialogue in italics is spoken in Vulcan.

Getting to the place Sophie suggested for drinks early had seemed like a good idea, so Martin had dragged Spock to the bar an hour before they were supposed to meet the girls and staked out a secluded table in the basement with a good view of the stairs. He'd been wrong. He kept catching himself compulsively squeezing his almost-empty glass to keep from checking his comm for what felt like the thousandth time for the results from the day's solo round. If he reached into his front pocket again, the seam of his pants was going to shred.

And Spock wasn't helping matters. His refusal to discuss any part of the round, combined with the uncharacteristic delay of the results made the time spent waiting for Sophie and her roommate creep. And now, Spock had abandoned him to go wash his hands. For all he knew, that was code for puking up lunch. He'd never seen the Vulcan so, well, not anxious exactly, but on edge.

The drink he'd ordered when they'd first arrived was little more than ice, but Martin questioned whether having another so quickly was a good idea. He reached for his glass again and tapped it deliberately on the tabletop before draining the last of the liquid it held and ordering another, as well as a bottle of Rigelian spring water for Spock, from the table's projected menu. He'd have to make this one last a while. As he waited for the automated serving drone to deliver the drinks, he eased his comm out of his pocket again, just to check the time, and set the device on the table.

Usually, results were available about two hours after the last competitor was released from their work area. But more than five hours had passed since the round ended, and there was nothing. He might have a better idea what was happening if Spock would talk to him, but the Vulcan had been piss poor company since returning to their room after his run and had spent the rest of the afternoon buried in work or meditating.

There was only so much meditation Martin could watch. After living with Spock for nearly four years, he was at his limit, and he'd poked around the lobby of the hotel until Sophie had commed him with directions to a place called The Vault. She'd made a really odd request, too. Not to mention Uhura joining them to anyone and gave him some vague explanation about her having a jealous ex-boyfriend.  He'd puzzled over that for a good hour while he sat in the hotel bar nursing a pot of real coffee until he'd remembered that Sophie once mentioning her roommate and the team's captain, Charlie Spencer, had been an item. Which made her request make perfect sense. Why rock the team's boat if you didn't have to?

He hadn't said anything to Spock. Not only was his roommate not likely to say anything, but Martin didn't see the point in bringing up something that might cause him to back out. After all, why rock the boat?

The service drone glided over to the table, and he exchanged his empty glass for the fresh one it carried and placed the bottled water, along with a glass, near Spock's chair. He was just taking a sip when he spotted his roommate making his way back to the table, conspicuous in his Academy reds. He had to admit, the Vulcan stood out, and he wasn't the only person in the bar who'd noticed.

If they hadn't been expecting Sophie and Uhura, they could have had their pick of available women. If Spock had been willing to cooperate, that is. In the short time they'd been there, three different groups of girls and two guys had asked to join them. That would have never happened in San Francisco. Too many Starfleet officers swarming around in their perfectly tailored dress greys or instructor blacks. And at home, Spock flat out refused to play wingman.

"It is four minutes and 32 seconds after the agreed upon time. They are late." Spock sat in the low chair next to Martin and stared at the foot of the wrought iron staircase that led down from the street level.

"They'll be here," Martin chided. "They're not Vulcan, you know. They don't have your internal clock."

"When one has made a commitment, punctuality is not only an illustration of character, it is an indicator of respect."

"Whoa, calm down. They'll be here."

"I am perfectly calm. I merely point out –"

Martin's comm buzzed, and he held up his hand to put a stop to the lecture while he flipped the device open. He deflated a little; it wasn't the results. But at least it was Sophie.  She and Uhura had run into friends up on the street, and they'd be down in a minute. He squeezed his hand around his comm to keep from slamming it down on the table and slowly exhaled.

A flash of pink at the bottom of the stairs distracted him from any further thoughts of destroying his comm, and he dropped it next to his drink. Sophie was wrapped in a heavy coat, and her cheeks were flushed from the cold of the outdoors. She looked around the room, beaming as she spotted him, and slipped through the crowd. When she reached him, she leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth.

"Is this yours?" she asked, pointing to his glass. Before Martin had a chance to answer, she downed half the contents in a single swallow. "Much better. It's colder than an Andorian witch's tit out there."

"And how would you know that?"

"A girl has to have her secrets."

Martin leaned over to tell Spock that all his fussing had been pointless, but the Vulcan's chair was empty.

"He's over there." Sophie gestured towards the staircase. "I think he saw something he liked."

Now that Sophie had pointed him out, Martin could see his roommate making a beeline to Uhura. She didn't see him at first, and her eyes darted around the room, searching. Spock had nearly reached her when she found him, and she ducked her head like she was trying to hide the way she smiled when she saw him.

Odd. She didn't seem like the shy or reserved type.

The Vulcan inclined his head towards her, and her smile transformed from radiant to amused as Spock moved behind her to assist her with her coat.

Martin chuckled. He'd seen Spock trot out his chivalry routine before, and girls usually ate it up, but tonight it looked like he wasn't going to get the reaction he was used to. When Spock eased the heavy garment away from Uhura's shoulders, he visibly stiffened and his hands tightened around the collar. And just as quickly, his grip slackened.

From his vantage point, Martin couldn't tell what had shaken his roommate, but he suspected that Spock might be out of his depth, particularly if Uhura was anything like Sophie. And she was a stunner. He didn't know how he'd missed that before.  It must have been all the mud.

Uhura turned and tried to reclaim her coat, but Spock had already folded it over his arm. That was when Martin saw what had rattled Spock, even if it was only for a second. The high-necked shirt Uhura wore, which seemed so modest from the front, didn't have a back. It was only tied closed at the small of her back, and her hair was pulled forward over her shoulder, so Spock had gotten an eyeful of smooth, bare skin. Oh yeah, he was in trouble.

While he'd been distracted, Sophie had settled onto the settee on the other side of the table. She was smirking at him. "Well, somebody likes to watch," she said. "Wish I'd known that earlier." She'd shed her own coat and lounged with her elbows propped up on the back of the small couch.

"Is that dress even legal?" Martin asked. She clearly meant for him to stare, so he obliged and leered, just to be polite.

Sophie laughed. "Please, I'm wearing it on the opaque setting. I'm hardly showing any nipple." She smoothed the front of her dress, but she only ended up pulling it more tightly across her chest. "It was the trade off to get her to wear that."

"I think Spock might be speechless. That's an accomplishment."

"Good, that was the point."

Martin reached for his glass and tipped it back, draining it down to ice while Sophie pulled up the menu and tapped out an order. Her face glowed in the golden light of the projection, and he studied her, a growing heaviness in his gut. What was that supposed to mean?

Uhura made her way over to the table, and Spock followed closely, his eyes glued to the lines of her back. As Martin watched the girl lead the Vulcan through the room, what Sophie said picked at him, but he took a deep breath and told himself that the nagging doubt in the pit of his stomach was nothing. The few times he'd seen Spock with Uhura, he hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary. Yeah, she was gorgeous, but that certainly wasn't unusual. The women Spock pursued were all beautiful in one way or another.

But his reaction to Uhura had definitely been out of the ordinary. Except for a short time during their first year, Spock didn't do fast with girls. Just the opposite. He usually took so long to express any interest, at least any interest a girl would recognize, she'd be long gone by the time he got around to it.

And then there was how Uhura had stumbled into Spock at the pub the night before the Invitational started, a seemingly random occurrence. But Spock had been watching the girl off and on well before that. What if that hadn't been an accident?

He wouldn't put it past Sophie to try and improve her team's chances by distracting Starfleet's strongest competitor. It was kind of a turn on the way he always felt he had to be on top of his game with her, but it was also why he wasn't interested in anything more than the casual, once-a-year thing they'd fallen into.

The service drone interrupted his thoughts when it returned with Sophie's order and a fresh drink for him. At the same time, Uhura and Spock reached the table, and she took her coat from him and draped it over the back of the settee. Sophie pointed towards a glass half-filled with ice and amber liquid. "That's yours."

"Thanks."

Martin took a long drink from the glass set in front of him, and he leaned forward and tapped Sophie’s knee to get her attention. "Have you heard anything about today's results?" His eyes drifted to his comm.

"Not yet."

"That's unusual, isn't it?" Uhura asked.

"Not if they scored the results by hand," Sophie replied.

"It is probable that any difficulty with the scoring is a result of the second problem set." Spock resumed his seat, a bit too formal and contained for the setting. His voice was low and even. "That set is particularly problematic when computer scoring models are considered."

"What was wrong with the second problem set?" Martin took another drink. He wasn't sure why Spock was breaking his silence about the round, but he planned to keep him talking. "Come on, enlighten us."

But Uhura broke in as if Martin had never spoken. "I noticed that, but I hadn't thought through all of the implications in terms of the scoring algorithms."

"Precisely," Spock answered. "There were subtle cues in the first question of that set that were subject to multiple interpretations. Seventy-three by my calculation, considering the effect each decision had on conjugation and tense, noun, and gender agreements in the remainder of the questions, particularly given the number of genders indicated by the lexicon."

"Twenty-seven," Uhura offered. "Genders, I mean."

Spock tilted his head and studied her appraisingly. "Agreed."

"And since both the second and third questions built on the response to the first question, those answers were affected by whether or not you correctly assessed all of the factors in the first question." Uhura's words came out in a rush as she leaned towards Spock, smiling. "What model do you think they're using? They had to know there could be a clusterfuck by the end of the set."

Martin started coughing and nearly dropped his glass. Uhura's colorful but accurate summary of Spock's concerns had been unexpected, and he'd temporarily forgotten the difference between breathing and swallowing and had inhaled some of the liquor. Sophie reached out and touched his knee lightly, but Spock and Uhura continued their conversation uninterrupted.

"Indeed." Spock was, unsurprisingly, unfazed at Uhura's casual profanity, his only reaction an elevated eyebrow and a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

He then launched into a review of the possible algorithms that could account for the number of variables required for accurate scoring of the problem set in question. Spock had once given the team an overview of the Invitational's scoring methods, but it had taken all of Martin's focus to follow what the Vulcan assured him was a rudimentary explanation of the most common methods of computer scoring used in science competitions.

But the theories Spock talked about now were a long way from the dumbed-down versions he'd discussed with the team, and far from being lost or confused, Uhura interjected her own questions or observations, hinting at a much more comprehensive understanding than Martin possessed.

He should have felt relieved at the depth of Spock's knowledge, not just of the principles of logic as applied to linguistics, but to all aspects of the competition, including the methods for scoring. But Uhura's response clearly illustrated that her performance at the pub quiz the night before, rather than being a fluke, had been a warning that she was precisely the threat Spock had identified her as.

Martin tipped back his glass, but it was empty. He didn't remember finishing the drink and briefly considered switching to water. Even though he still felt clear-headed, more alcohol probably wasn't a good idea. But Sophie was staring at Uhura with a pained expression, and he found himself ordering another round for both of them. She smiled at him and then rolled her eyes in the direction of their roommates, letting her head sag back against the sofa, and Martin laughed.

"All right," Sophie broke in. "We get it. You're both brilliant. Now can we please talk about something, if not interesting, then at least not mind-numbingly boring?"

Spock's head swung in her direction, and he squinted, as if only just remembering there were other people at the table. "What topic do you suggest?"

"You were just talking about programming with a large degree of expertise. Is that what you're studying?"

"In part."

"What else?" Uhura asked.

"I have pursued a broad course of study including interstellar physics, planetary geology, xenobiology –"

"If it's a science, Spock's probably got some kind of degree or certification in it," Martin interjected.

"That is inaccurate," Spock replied. "I do not –"

This could go on for hours, so Martin cut in again. "It's the general idea. They don't need your entire CV."

"Science officer." There was no question in Uhura's voice, and Spock gave her his entire focus again.

"Yes."

"There was so much publicity when you joined Starfleet, but the news feeds never had any details. And then they just went black."

"You remember that?" Sophie shifted towards her roommate.

"He's the first Vulcan in Starfleet. It's still a big deal." And then she turned back to Spock with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. We're talking about you like you aren't here."

"There is no offense."

"So, why Starfleet. Why not the Vulcan Science Academy?"

The service drone skated up to the table, and Martin traded out empty glasses for full ones. He silently willed his roommate to answer Uhura's question. He'd asked the same thing before and never managed to get an answer.

Which was starting to look less and less likely as Spock's mild expression shifted almost imperceptibly. His mouth thinned, and his eyes darkened. When he spoke again, his voice was cool and detached, more so than usual. "Out of the options available at the time of my decision, it was the logical choice."

His answer was wholly unsatisfying, but Martin had to admit that was more of an explanation than he'd been privy to before. He thought about pushing the issue, but the expression in Spock's eyes and the tone of his voice broadcast loud and clear that this part of their conversation was at an end.

The sudden silence at the table was made even more deafening in contrast to the activity and voices that surrounded them. Martin took a sip of his fresh drink and set his glass down. He had to pause to let a wave of dizziness pass when he leaned forward. Maybe he should slow down. But his momentary disorientation could just mean he was hungry because mentally, he felt sharp. Still, it couldn't hurt to nurse this one.

Sophie looked around the table and pursed her lips. "Look," she finally said, "we're four intelligent people. There has to be something else we can all talk about."

"I believe you speak my native language with some degree of proficiency." Spock was again focused on Uhura.

"You speak Vulcan?" The words were barely out of Martin's mouth before he remembered Uhura's use of Vulcan calligraphy to test the work screens the day before. But that didn't necessarily mean she spoke the language. For all he knew, she could have just memorized a few figures because she thought they were pretty.

Uhura shrugged.  “I’m okay.”

"She speaks it beautifully," Sophie chimed in.

Martin turned to Spock. "How do  _you_  know she speaks Vulcan?"

Spock didn't respond, although Martin was pretty sure he'd heard him, even over the noise in the bar, and was ignoring the question. The only time Spock and Uhura had spoken, as far as he knew, had been after the pub challenge the night before. Had she approached him in his native language? Were they really just comparing answers and maybe doing some really bad flirting, or was there something else? And what about the blow up that had sent Uhura stomping off the stage? There was something there, but what? He tried to chase that thought, but it skittered away just out of his reach.

Martin shook his head. That kind of mental fumbling wasn't like him, and again, he questioned whether he should stop drinking. But he felt fine. In fact, he was sure that, if needed, he could pilot a shuttle through a meteor shower without nav sensors. Backwards.

He picked up his glass again, but water had condensed against the outside, and it nearly slipped out of his hand. Man, it was hot. It had been uncomfortable before, but since the girls arrived, the bar had gotten a lot more crowded, and the temperature must have gone up. Spock didn't seem bothered by it, but he was Vulcan, and he probably liked it. The same way Cadet Zhelen liked to go swimming in the Bay in the dead of winter. The girls looked comfortable, too, but they were wearing a lot less than he was.

Martin tightened his grip on his glass and took a measured swallow. He stared at Uhura.

She rested easily against the arm of the settee, and she looked expectantly at Spock, but the Vulcan only inclined his head in her direction. Uhura reached for her own drink. "I slipped into it when I tripped the other night."

Martin ignored the prickle running up the back of his neck. "If a language is a reflex for you, I'd say you're a little more than okay."

Uhura pressed her lips together. "It's passable. A lot of the phonemes are difficult for humans to articulate, and I don't get to speak it much."

"Your Vulcan is lovely." Sophie turned to her friend, who was downing half of the whisky in her glass in a single swallow, and poked her in the arm.

Uhura quickly cupped her hand under her glass to catch the drops that splashed over the rim when Sophie nudged her.  "Hey!”

"Oh, I know. You two could have a conversation.”  Sophie gestured back and forth between Spock and Uhura.  She leaned over her roommate towards the Vulcan. "You wouldn't mind, right?"

"Would you stop?" Uhura pushed the pink-haired girl back to her side of the sofa. But Sophie ignored her.

"In Vulcan. Go on. Both Martin and I speak it, too, so it's not like it'd be rude."

Martin watched Spock as the girls argued. His roommate had leaned forward in his chair, his eyes trained on Uhura. "I have no objection to Miss Lansing's…request," he began, "if you are amenable."

Uhura shook her head. "Humoring her just makes her harder to live with."

_"Given your species' tenacity regarding inherently unreasonable requests, it has been my experience that it is sometimes more expedient to simply comply. I believe, in human vernacular, you would say 'getting it over with.'"_  The abruptness of Spock's shift in languages was jarring, and even though Martin considered himself proficient in Vulcan, he scrambled to make the switch.

Having a native Vulcan speaker for a roommate had come in handy when he'd studied the modern form to fulfill his Academy language requirement, and he'd often worked with Spock to improve his pronunciation and conversational skills, sometimes pestering him until he gave in and helped him. But when Spock spoke now, it sounded like a different language entirely. His words came more quickly, and his cadence shifted. Martin had only heard him speak that way the few times he'd overheard him talking to one of his parents.

Uhura glanced back and forth between Spock and Sophie, hesitating before she responded in kind. Watching the change that came over her when she switched languages was an education. She didn't clamp down on her emotions the way Martin had to when he spoke Vulcan. Instead, they melted into her, leaving a calm, unruffled shell with only the barest hint of something more just beneath the surface.  _"Are you often in the position to wish to ‘get it over with?’"_

_"On occasion,"_  Spock replied.

Uhura's eyes gleamed, and she edged forward.  _"I require further information."_

_"For what purpose?"_

_"You suggested I trust your judgment. I am trying to determine if I should follow your advice."_

_"Are you not already following it?"_ Spock countered.

For a long minute, they stared at one another, not speaking. And then Uhura dropped her gaze and stared at her hands where they rested on her knee. When she raised her eyes back to Spock's, the barest approximation of a smile tugged at her lips. _"Curiosity, then."_

His tone was measured, as it nearly always was, but his eyes flickered over to Martin before he answered. _"I would prefer not to elaborate."_

_"Is this one of those occasions?"_ Uncertainty rippled across her face but disappeared almost as quickly as she composed herself.

Spock blinked, momentarily speechless.  _"It is not,"_ he finally said. His voice was so soft, it was almost a whisper.  _"It is not,"_  he repeated more forcefully, and his next words were uncharacteristically hurried.  _"Indeed, I rarely have occasion to use the more familiar speech patterns of my home._ "

Uhura nodded, and gave him a small, quick smile. " _Are you from Shi'kar?"_

" _Affirmative. I surmise you recognize the similarities between my more regional usage and the standardized form of the language."_

" _Yes. Given that the standardized form is based on the Shi'kari dialect, it was a reasonable assumption._ "

" _Even, perhaps, logical._ "

This time, Uhura laughed, a sharp, bright sound that rang above the ambient noise before she was able to control it. "Yes, exactly," she said, switching back to Federation Standard.

Sophie reached over and touched Martin's wrist. "See? It's stunning."

"Yeah, that's pretty convincing." And it had been. Uhura spoke with the same easy fluidity that Spock possessed, but there were noticeable differences from both Spock's native speaking patterns and from the standardized form of Vulcan Martin knew. While she, too, spoke precisely, the rhythm was slower and more drawn out than he was used to hearing.

"It is acceptable." The change in Spock's expression was minor, but he looked decidedly curious. "The dialect of Vulcana Regar is not uncommon, but because its cadence is unlike that of the standardized language, the dialect is not traditionally included in the basic curriculum. Where did you learn?"

Sophie edged closer to Uhura on the small sofa and leaned in towards Spock. "Excellent question. I've never gotten it out of her."

"So what's the story?" Martin leaned in too, not caring that he sounded more like he was making a demand than a request.

"It is of no consequence." Spock's voice was muted, but Martin pushed.

"Hold on. I think we're all curious."

Uhura sank back against the settee. Gripping her glass in front of her like a shield, she looked back and forth from Sophie to Martin, finally landing on her roommate. She glared at the other girl and chewed at the inside of her lip before she looked away. "It's no big mystery. I had a tutor," she murmured into her glass before taking a drink.

Sophie considered her explanation and then frowned. "No," she said, her tone challenging.

"What do you mean, no?"

"I've been after that story for over a year. That's too innocuous to be the big secret."

"Could you please drop it?"

Sophie scooted closer to Uhura and poked her. "Come on, out with it." But Uhura wasn't having it and batted her hand away.

Martin felt his heart accelerate as he watched the girls. The 13-year-old part of his brain held its breath, convinced that a squirming brawl was seconds away. He was reaching for his glass, thinking that the evening was definitely looking up, when his comm buzzed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an unending respect for the authors who have the talent and patience to translate dialogue into Vulcan. I have neither which is how you end up with the famous "dialogue in italics" as a placeholder.
> 
> I know it's taken forever to even get them in the same room again. Now that I've finally got them talking to one another, I hope it didn't and doesn't disappoint. More to come soon.


	9. Chapter 9

The small silver mechanism rumbled against the tabletop, and Sophie and Uhura, who had been bickering, both fell silent. Martin's adolescent wish for a writhing, grasping, hair-pulling wrestling match between the girls evaporated as he reached for his comm.

He scanned through the message he'd received and took a shallow breath that still managed to get caught in his chest and hitch his shoulders up around his ears no matter how thin the air felt. The results. Finally.

When he saw that Spock's individual score had moved the team into first place overall, ahead of MIT, the sickening knot in his stomach loosened, and he finally exhaled, his lungs pushing the air out in a rush that reached all the way down to his toes. And seeing Oxford still in third helped ease the stiffness in his shoulders. "Yes," he hissed.

"Shit!" Sophie was staring at her comm screen with huge eyes. "Sorry," she said, although she didn't sound sorry at all.

She handed her comm to Uhura who flicked through whatever was on the screen. "I'll try not to be insulted that you're so shocked."

They were looking at the results, Martin assumed. He glanced through the message again, looking for what the girls were talking about, and when he got to the scores for each specific competitor, he felt the thing in his stomach start to reform, and his temples began to throb. The room was suddenly very hot.

"I don't believe this," he mumbled.

"Congratulations," Uhura told him and Spock as she handed Sophie back her comm.

"Yes, boys. Well done. I don't think anyone's ever knocked MIT out of first place once they got there." Sophie squeezed Martin's knee, but he pried her hand away and stared at Uhura.

"You got the highest score in the round."

"I did."

"How the hell did you manage that?"

"Excuse me?" Uhura visibly stiffened and slid to the front of her seat.

"How did you do this?" Martin spoke slowly, exaggerating each word and ignoring the way Spock didn't quite glare at him.

"I have no idea what you're asking," Uhura turned to Spock. "Do you?"

"I do not."

But the bits of information that had been collecting in his brain all night were finally beginning to click together, and even though he could only see a portion of the picture they made, one thing was clear. Somehow, Oxford had cheated. "You're not good enough to get that kind of score," he said, not bothering to hide the scorn in his voice. "There's no way you could have pulled that off without some kind of help."

"Martin." Despite the soft way Sophie said his name, her voice had an edge that cut through the hum of the crowded bar around them. She hadn't moved, but her eyes were so hard and cold, Martin shrank away from her before he even realized.

He looked to Spock, certain the Vulcan had reached the same conclusion about Oxford's performance. But Spock watched him with the same cool indifference that unnerved plebes so much when he dressed one of them down for some minor rule infraction. "I find myself in a similar quandary. Explain."

The bar was stifling, and Martin unfastened the tight, upright collar of his uniform jacket, unable to hear anything except his heart beating fast and heavy in his ears. Spock was the XO of their cadet regiment and technically his superior officer, and it was within his authority to demand clarification. Martin had just been so sure Spock would be ten steps ahead of him in figuring out Oxford's scheme, he hadn't worried about justifying his conclusions. Especially since the picture inside his head screamed at him that something was wrong with Oxford's score for the individual round.

And that picture was only getting clearer. In fact, Spock's reaction to his questioning Uhura finally brought what had been nagging at him into focus. He turned on her.

"You said that something Spock told you helped you today."

Faint vertical lines appeared between her brows, her confusion at the abrupt change in topic obvious, and her eyes skipped hesitantly in Sophie’s direction. Martin smiled. He was on to something.

"He pointed out another way of looking at things. He didn't give me the answers." Uhura sat perfectly still, but she gripped the seat cushion of the settee so firmly, her fingers dented the dense upholstery.

That one gesture confirmed everything for him. Oxford had to be using Spock's attraction to Uhura, an attraction that was so conspicuous anyone could have seen it, to throw him off just enough for them to keep pace with the front runners.

He congratulated himself for putting Sophie's confession about her ruining Oxford's chances last year together with the clues and signals he'd picked up the last couple of days. An unexpectedly high showing this year would definitely make up for Sophie's mistake last year.

"What exactly did you and Spock talk about last night that got you so upset?" Martin asked, and she didn’t say anything, he answered his own question. "I think you offered him something for throwing the round, for not performing up to expectations, and he didn't agree right away. Why else would you be so hot for him? You haven't spent any time together. Whatever you promised him must be pretty spectacular since he went along with it."

Spock, who had watched the exchange in stony silence, stood, and Martin was forced to crane his neck backwards to maintain eye contact. "Cadet Schroeder, you are out of line." Spock's voice, which was almost always cool, was laced with barely contained displeasure. "You will apologize. Now."

"You making that an order?" Martin forced the words out through his clenched jaw.

"If I must."

Uhura rose to her feet and touched Spock's sleeve. "You know what? Don't even bother. I wouldn't accept it anyway."

She grabbed her coat and pulled it on, but before she could leave, Sophie leaned forward and tapped her half-empty glass. "Wait, don't waste good liquor."

Uhura looked at her, the creases between her eyebrows deepening, and then she shrugged, reached for her glass, and drained it in one swallow. Turning back to Spock, she hesitated. "I'm sorry." She inhaled through open lips, like she was going to say something more, but then her mouth pressed into a thin, hard line, and she turned and slipped through the crowd, only pausing once on the stairs to glance back at Spock before hurrying up to the street.

Spock watched her leave, and Martin leaned over the arm of his chair get his attention. "Don't sweat it, buddy. She was just playing you."

The Vulcan looked down at him, his expression even more unreadable than usual. Martin felt bad for the guy. Even with all of Spock's emotional control, it couldn't be easy for him to realize the girl he had a thing for was only pretending to be interested in him.

"Hold on." Sophie scooted over to the side of the settee Uhura had just vacated, closer to Spock. "Just so you know, she had other offers tonight, and she hates it when I meddle. She could have said no to this. Hell, if you hadn't been part of the deal, she  _would_  have said no."

Spock was quiet for a long minute and then nodded stiffly and collected his overcoat and scarf from where they lay neatly over the back of his chair.

"Wait, where are you going?" Martin stood up. He'd expected the movement to be quick and decisive, but his legs didn't cooperate, and he lurched sideways, grasping the back of his chair to keep from falling over.

"That is not your concern."

Martin felt the knot in his stomach contract again. "I was just trying to help," he blurted. It wasn't great, but it was the first thing he could think of to stop Spock from following Uhura out the door.

"While I admit to having some deficits in my experience with human social interactions, I was not aware that accusations of intellectual dishonesty or inferiority were acceptable methods of improving acquaintance. I shall endeavor to remember this approach in the future." Spock's tone was remote and even, nothing Martin hadn't heard before, but for the first time, he felt like Spock didn't consider him worth his time. The Vulcan wound his long, black scarf around his neck and put on his overcoat on with sharp, spare movements.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Martin took a deep breath to try and dispel the ache at the bottom of his ribs. A fog had descended over his brain, and he shook his head to clear it, but he still felt a little fuzzy. How did Spock not see how the girls were using him? "Don't you think you're being a little overdramatic?"

Spock fastened his coat and leaned down to pick up his hat from the low table. Avoiding the up-swept tips of his ears, he placed it carefully on his head and turned to Sophie, touching his fingertips to the shiny, black brim where it was pulled precisely over his forehead. "Miss Lansing," he said formally before he, too, retreated, climbed the stairs, and left.

Martin sank down into the chair across from Sophie, Spock's chair, and watched him walk out, effectively abandoning him for a girl he barely knew. He rubbed his eyes and then reached for his half-filled glass, but Sophie leaned over, plucked it out of his hand, and sniffed its contents.

"What's this? Gin?" Her nose wrinkled but took a sip anyway. "You might want to switch to that," she said, gesturing to the bottle of water. Martin stared first at her and then the bottle. He hated to admit it, but she was probably right about pacing himself.

"What was all that about with Spock?" He didn't bother to use a glass and instead drank straight from the bottle. He hadn't realized he was so thirsty, and he sighed as the cool liquid started to sap some of the heat from the room.

"Just trying to undo some of your damage," she explained lightly. "That might be a record for the most people offended in the space of one drink. Or in your case, three. Unless it was more."

"Yeah." His stomach churned at the smug look on her face. "I guess you're feeling pretty pleased with yourself."

Sophie finished off his drink and set the glass down with a heavy clunk that seemed to echo throughout the room. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Isn't damaging our team's chances what this was all about?" Martin took another long drink from the water bottle.

"That's brilliant," she said, laughing. "After that display of yours, I wish I  _had_  thought of it. But sadly, this fiasco was your idea."

"I was trying to do the guy a favor."

"Really? What part of that was the favor? The part where you called  _my_  friend a thick-headed cheat?  The part where you told  _your_  friend the only reason she was interested in him was to cock up your master plan to win a game? No.  I know.  The part where you implied I'd peddle her out for something so stupid. Even if benefited us, which it doesn't, I know where to stop." As she spoke, Sophie's voice lost its lightness.

"Please, you're just as competitive as I am."

"That's where you're wrong. I shouldn't be shocked; you can't read people for shit. As far as I'm concerned, if we make it through tomorrow's round without any major mistakes? That's all I want. If I had thought for even a second that I'd have to turn on anyone on my team to do that, even Charlie, I'd never have started this."

Sophie pulled up the projected menu again and paged through the screen options until she found the check, which glowed red. She brushed the plain ring she wore over the payment terminal at the corner of the table, and the screen changed to green. Martin guessed that she had a credit chip embedded in her jewelry. Then she stood up and pulled her skirt down from where it had ridden up while she sat and gathered her things.

The tension that had sprung up between them was disorienting but not unexpected. "You're such a goddamn bitch."

"And you're an insecure little boy with daddy issues," Sophie replied.

"Go to hell."

The look she leveled at him reeked of pity, and the hard lump in his stomach roiled at the thought that she might feel sorry for him. What she said next made it even worse. "Actually, I think I'll go see if anyone at the bar wants to buy me another drink. And if that doesn't work out, I'm going to go to my favorite club, find some Neanderthal footballer, and let him tear this dress off of me in the loo."

"I thought you were going to leave."

"And I thought you were a decent enough fellow. I guess we were both wrong."

Sophie leaned over and pressed her lips to his cheek. When she pulled away, she smiled coyly and headed towards the bar where she insinuated herself between two identical-looking men. Great, Martin thought. The twins from MIT. She turned sharply, and bumped one of their elbows, sending the guy's drink down the front of his shirt and trousers.

She made a show of apologizing and helping the guy sop up the mess she had created, and Martin clearly remembered their first meeting the year before. She'd "accidentally" jostled his elbow, and he'd ended up wearing his drink, too. Funny, he'd thought himself lucky.

He knew he needed to leave, but he didn't know where to go or if, given how drunk he realized he was, he'd make it more than a block. He fumbled with the order screen, pulled up the list of detox treatments, and put in an order for one he'd used before along with more water. He had a vague notion of meeting Cadets Zhelen, Solórzano, and Gunheim. They'd mentioned a pub not too far away, and at this point, anything was better than watching his date help another man make sure he didn't end up with a stain on the front of his pants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this so quickly because it's really the second half of the chapter that went up yesterday. I'll be posting one or two chapters a week for the next couple of months, and I hesitate to throw out too much, too soon. But I think this is a good place to leave it for a few days. It might be the most obvious secret in the world, but I've got a huge chunk of this written already.
> 
> Yes, Martin's a bit of a shit. And yes, after this we leave him and Sophie behind for a bit. Next chapter, we see what happens when Spock catches up to Nyota on the street and how they handle things from here. 
> 
> A big thanks for the comments and kudos! See you in a few days.


	10. Chapter 10

The night was clear and cold when Nyota stepped outside the bar and onto the street. While it wasn't unusual for it the temperature to drop after dark this time of year, it was especially unwelcome because she was so unsettled and so angry she was shaking and couldn't feel her fingertips. She didn't know whether she was more upset that Martin had accused her of being a manipulative cheat or that he'd questioned her intelligence.

She rubbed her hands together to try and get the feeling back into them, and when that failed, she jammed them into her coat pockets and breathed the cold air deep into her lungs. It soothed the burning irritation that pulsed inside her chest, and every exhale took a little bit of her anger away, hanging it in front of her in a fine, white mist until it stretched thin and vanished.

After a few deep breaths, she felt calmer. Enough for her to wonder why she was still standing outside the bar. In the cold. By herself. It wasn't like she'd expected Spock to follow her when she'd packed up and walked out. Or like she'd asked him to. Or like they'd had much of a chance to talk so that dragging him out with her would have been logical. But she'd wanted him to follow her, or she'd wanted to drag him out. She wasn't about to quibble over which one it was because it didn't matter.

But still, Nyota couldn't think of anything else to do but wait. Just in case.

Staring at the door just felt silly, so she made herself look at her surroundings even though there wasn't much to see. The Vault was tucked down a narrow side street in between and underneath a couple of pubs. Whether it was the influx of visiting students and faculty for the Invitational or the University being between terms, both of the pubs were crowded, even the garden seating, although Nyota knew from experience that whether the exterior environmentals were working on any given night was pure chance. Regardless, there were so many people, she couldn't really make anything out. The buildings across the way were barricaded behind an old, stone wall, and the offices at the other end of the street were closed for the day. It wasn't long before her attention was pulled back to the door of the bar, and when it was, her pulse gave her a little kick because Spock was there, standing in the doorway to the bar and scanning the street.

Nyota stared, almost afraid she was imagining him there. She started to call out, but she hesitated. As much as she wanted to think he was looking for her, he was probably just getting his bearings so he could leave. So instead, she stayed rooted in the pool of yellow light that spilled from one of the ancient lamps illuminating the street and held her breath.

When Spock's gaze finally settled on her, her heart jumped, and in the time it took for him to walk over to her, the unrelenting pounding against her ribs grew so forceful, she was afraid it might bruise. The way he watched her, like she was the only person on the street, only made it worse, and she started to feel a little lightheaded.

"I'm sorry," she blurted, more to fill the silence than anything else. "If I'd stayed, I was going to hit him."

"You have done nothing that requires apology. Although I agree that a physical response to Cadet Schroeder's accusations would have been inappropriate." He paused, as if considering whether to continue, and what he said next surprised her. "I do not believe, however, that anyone hearing his opinions would have faulted you if you had committed an act of physical violence."

"Even you?"

"Yes."

Nyota smiled at how he answered her without any hesitation, but still, she stepped back, hoping some distance would encourage her pulse to slow down because she didn't seem to be able to look anywhere except at him.

"We should go elsewhere," said Spock. "There is an 83.27 percent chance of further confrontation if we remain here when Cadet Schroeder exits the establishment."

He started down the street, but Nyota didn't follow him right away. Something about his statement just seemed…off. "Wait. How are you calculating the possible outcomes?"

Spock stopped and walked the few steps back to her. "I have known Cadet Schroeder for several years and am familiar with his thought processes."

She blinked and then breathed out a short, silent laugh and shook her head. "That doesn't really explain anything."

"I can provide my calculations, but I do not believe there is sufficient time.  Nor is this the appropriate place."

"And don't think I won't hold you to that. But you're right. We should leave."

Martin had been pretty lashed, and Nyota was sure the wild accusations, slurred speech and stumbling weren't even half of it. From what she'd seen, he was the worst kind of drunk: aggressive and vindictive. She didn't question that Spock was right about what would happen if Martin saw them together, but she wasn't sure where to go.

And there was Sophie. Nyota had had enough of her manipulations for the rest of the night and had no interest in seeing her again until morning. Sophie hated disloyalty, and after Martin's little performance, Nyota calculated the odds at 100 percent that she'd pitch him over the side in some humiliating way and go off looking for a substitute.

She looked down the street in the direction Spock had first taken. Sophie's favorite dance club was that way, and she'd sworn, unprompted and with a wink and a nudge, that she'd be out until at least midnight. She'd probably end up there. "Where are you staying? What hotel?"

"The Randolph."

"Sophie's going to dump Martin if she hasn't already. Do you think he'd go back there?"

Spock's head angled to one side, and Nyota smothered a grin at the way his lips tensed as he thought. "Perhaps, given his level of intoxication," he concluded. "Although if an acceptable detoxification treatment is available, the likelihood decreases to less than 25 percent."

One corner of his mouth crooked upwards, and Nyota was nearly certain he expected her to interrogate him about his math again. He was going to be disappointed. The Vault, like most other cocktail bars, had an extensive selection of detoxes available. She liked those odds and didn't want to argue with them.

Spock's hotel was in the same neighborhood as her flat, and with neither Martin nor Sophie likely to head in that direction, it seemed like the safest way to go. And soon. They couldn't waste whatever head start they had on their roommates standing there staring at each other.

She skirted the edge of the pub garden and was past the first bank of tables when she realized Spock was still standing in front of The Vault, illuminated in the same pool of yellow light where she had waited for him. She turned back.

"Well?"

He seated his hat more firmly on his head and came towards her, his long stride making the distance between them suddenly meaningless. When he reached her, she smiled and tugged his sleeve at the elbow and started back down the street. "Come on."

The pavement was too narrow for them to walk together, but instead of walking behind her, Spock stepped off into the street. The way he practically herded her away from the curb despite there being restricted hours for vehicle traffic was so blunt, Nyota had to squeeze her eyes shut to keep from rolling them at him. When she opened them again, he was watching her.

Someone human might have looked away, but Spock showed no embarrassment that he'd been caught staring at her, and the blood rushed to her cheeks under his frank scrutiny. The intensity of how he looked at her made every possible topic of conversation she thought of seem pointless. They'd talked so easily in the bar; she should have been able to come up with something that wasn't mind-numbingly stupid. Finally, she blurted out the next thing she thought of.

"That might be the worst first date I've ever been on."

The warmth in Spock's eyes retreated and was replaced by a cool reserve. He stared straight ahead and focused on some point in the distance, and Nyota's stomach churned anxiously at his startlingly clear reaction to her poor attempt at a joke.

"Maybe we could try again?" she asked quickly, nearly tripping over her words in her haste to reassure him. "It's still early. We could do something. Together, I mean. If you don't have other plans."

He nodded, a short, sharp gesture, but his expression softened, and he glanced back at her. "I do not have other plans."

"Is there anything you wanted to see…or do while you were here?"

He paused before responding, and his answer was surprisingly cautious. "As I am not familiar with the city, your guidance is appreciated."

They reached the corner, and the pavement became too narrow for even one person, and Nyota stepped down into the street. Their height difference came rushing back to her, and she had to steady herself against Spock's arm before leading him down a constricted but brightly-lit passage that would take them to High Street. She'd been in such a hurry to get away from in front of the bar that she didn't have any destination in mind other than getting as far away from Martin and Sophie as possible.

The High was busy that night, not that it wasn't always. Crowded with people maneuvering up and down the street and vehicles speeding by at regular intervals. Nyota paused on the corner to figure out where they should go.

There was a coffeehouse a few blocks away that always seemed to be open, and if she gave him some details, Spock would probably be able to tell her the likelihood of running into their roommates there. She laughed, as quiet and gentle as a sigh, at the thought of sitting with him at a table in a quiet corner of the warm, well-lit space while he calculated probabilities on the PADD he probably had tucked into his coat, but when she turned to suggest it, he wasn't next to her anymore. Fear that he'd changed his mind about spending the evening with her kindled in the middle of her chest, but a quick search found him examining the display in the shop window behind her.

Nyota knew the shop, and the displays were always wonderful. She'd stop by every few weeks to see if they'd changed; the one there tonight was new. Soft light shone off the warm tones of the intricately-carved, polished wood and gleaming strings of the collection of the Terran and off-world musical instruments displayed there, suspended in an anti-grav field. Like they were waiting for someone to come along and play them.

Suspecting what was coming, she held her breath. Spock moved into the window's sensor range and then blinked in surprise when he unknowingly triggered the display's holo-emitters. Figures of musicians shimmered into place, the lights focused on the instruments intensified, and the musicians began to play a haunting piece in a minor key. Nyota moved next to Spock who had leaned in closer to the window and pressed his fingers against the glass.

The melody danced back and forth between the instruments, showcasing each one's unique tone before they came back together in a surprisingly delicate harmony. If she'd been alone, Nyota would have done what she usually did and closed her eyes and let the music rush over her, and she would have stepped in and out of the display's sensor range to make the piece play over and over again, until she had it memorized.

But she wasn't alone. So instead of hearing the beauty of the music, she could only worry about what Spock was thinking. Was he considering the complexity of the arrangement? Or reviewing the history of the string instrument? Or puzzling over the incongruity between the mostly non-Terran instruments and the piece they played? Did he even like music, or was it just another form of mathematics to him? Something to break down and examine for numerical patterns or transcribe into integer notation.

But Spock didn't look like he found the display or the music unpleasant. Far from it. In fact, he was so intently focused on the Vulcan lyre at the center of the grouping, she doubted he'd notice if she tripped the sensor again and started the piece over.

"The Pavane," he said in a hushed tone that might have been reverent if it hadn't been so mild. The song had faded, and when Nyota looked around, she found they were alone, the small section of the street where they stood momentarily deserted.

"I'm sorry. What?"

"The piece of music. I am familiar with the original composition but not that arrangement. I believe I heard a musical form of a golden spiral in the ka'athyra harmonies."

"I think the shop owner arranges the music for the displays. It changes every few weeks."

"Then you frequent this establishment."

"Just the window."

"You do not play?"

Nyota shook her head. "Not really. I've sung almost all my life, and I know enough piano to work my way through vocal pieces, but I don't think you can describe what I do as playing. What about you?"

"My father is a skilled ka'athyra player. He taught me to play when I was a child, and I have continued the practice. I find it a satisfying exercise in discipline." Spock's voice had taken on a surprising warmth, and he stepped closer.

"Discipline." Nyota rolled the word over her tongue, as if both it and the concept were unfamiliar. "I usually don't think of music that way."

"Musical proficiency requires significant discipline." He took another step. "The study, the practice necessary to develop the requisite neural pathways for mastery of technique and form, the mental acumen – "

"I understand all of that." Was there a way to explain a concept of music that was pure passion to someone grounded in emotional self-control? Nyota wasn't sure, but when she looked at Spock, she saw a brightness in his eyes that couldn't be anything but passion even if it was muted, and it was suddenly possible that he understood her more emotive approach to music too well. "What I meant was that you do all that work so you can have moments of pure…abandon inside the music."

Spock's head tilted thoughtfully, considering her opinion. "As you so aptly observe, discipline is the foundation for 'abandon.' Without discipline, there is too great a potential for chaos and disorder."

"But discipline without abandon can be soulless."

He looked at her, unmoving. A small frown that furrowed the space between his brows was her only clue to what he was thinking, and it wasn't particularly helpful. And then he swallowed and took another step towards her until he was only a handbreadth away.

"I believe you are correct." His voice was barely a whisper, and he was so close, Nyota had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. If he'd been human, she might have expected him to try to kiss her. She wished he would. She wanted him to. Maybe she should just kiss him.

It took her brain a moment to catch up with her thoughts which were careening recklessly down a path she wasn't quite ready to follow, and when it did, she had to force herself to breathe normally because her heart was pounding too hard and much too fast. She needed a little space.

Her first step away from him was on stiff knees, more like she'd overbalanced and had to catch herself than moved deliberately. Her second step was more sure, and she turned towards the street so Spock wouldn't see how flustered he made her. Although, if it didn't stop, there was no way he wasn't going to notice.

A soft scuff against the pavement told her that he had joined her in looking out over the street. He stood closer to her than when they had first started their walk, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, and her stomach flipped as she pushed away another wave of dizziness.

Her heart hadn't calmed down at all, and when she tilted her chin up to smile at him, she felt decidedly off-center. She must have swayed a little because Spock reached out to grasp her elbow, steadying her.

"Nyota?"

She heard his concern clearly, even though it barely colored his voice, and closed her eyes and took a deep breath to steady herself. But she still felt a wobble, like she'd had too much liquor on too little food, which was a surprise. Yes, she'd downed two fingers of good Scotch in short order; and no, she hadn't eaten since breakfast, but she rarely felt the effects. Maybe she was still coming down from the adrenaline from her confrontation with Martin.

Spock hovered over her, still gently holding her arm. Apprehension flickered in his eyes before quickly being replaced with something harder and less decipherable.

"That'll teach me to skip lunch." Nyota kept her tone light to reassure him that her unsteadiness wasn't anything serious.

"When did you last eat?" Spock maintained his light grip on her arm but did not stop her from pulling slightly away.

"This morning. Before the round."

"Then you are in need of nourishment." Spock scanned the street, his eyes quickly searching the store fronts before settling on a brightly lit window some distance away. "There appears to be a dining establishment 22.9 meters west."

He tried to steer her towards the restaurant, but Nyota pulled back, not a lot, but enough to register her dissent. "I'm fine."

"Fine is an imprecise term." Spock sounded like he was giving a lecture. "However, regardless of the definition under which I assess your condition, you are not 'fine.'"

For a second, Nyota saw a look of frustration flash across Spock's features but then his jaw relaxed and his eyes creased at the corners, and she realized … he was amused by her stubbornness. She turned her head to try and hide her answering smile and then gave up an laughed. "All right, you win."

"It is not a question of winning, Nyota. Between the alcohol you have consumed and your inadequate caloric intake, combined with your – " he scanned her appraisingly, "— below average body weight for a human female of your height, it is only reasonable that –"

"I get it. I need to eat. But not Gustav's."

"Gustav's?"

"The place down the street. It's German.  There’s some form of meat's in almost everything they serve. So unless you were planning on just watching me eat, which is _not_  okay, then we should go someplace else."

"Then we will share a meal." Nyota's surprise at his easy capitulation must have shown on her face, because Spock continued. "I am familiar with the importance humans place on mealtime socialization and am comfortable with the practice."

"Good." Nyota smiled and stepped away. Spock released her arm, although his hand lingered, and she pulled her sleeve free of his fingertips. "There's a vegetarian Thai place near our flat and your hotel. It's far enough away that Martin and Sophie won't be an issue, and the food's pretty good. We could go there."

"What is the distance?" While his expression gave nothing away, Nyota suspected he was calculating whether she'd be able to safely reach the proposed destination. She didn't quite manage to suppress the laugh that bubbled up at the thought. And she could only imagine his reaction if he'd seen her a few weeks ago when she'd drunk the captain of the Balliol rowing crew, a tall young man who outweighed her by about 30 kilos, under the table.

"I'm not sure about the exact distance," she told Spock. "But it's about 10 or 15 minutes from here on foot." He inclined his head towards her, his brow creasing as he silently assessed her suggestion, and Nyota laughed again. "I'm pretty sure it won't be a problem," she gasped.

He nodded, but if someone could look doubtful without actually having an expression on their face, he was managing it, and it only made her more helpless to stop her giggling. Finally, she stepped off the curb at the next break in traffic and crossed the street, laughing the entire time.

Spock matched her pace, a warm presence at her side that should have been reassuring, but Nyota suspected he was hovering because he thought she might need a supporting hand before they reached the restaurant, and if she laughed any harder, she just might. She noticed that partway across the street, he pulled in front of her on suddenly distractingly long legs so that he could better watch for oncoming vehicles.

Nyota led Spock away from the shops, pubs, and restaurants that lined the High and down a well-lit, sheltered side street.

"I want to stay away from the busier areas a bit longer," Nyota explained when he caught her eye with a questioning lift of one brow. "And this is an interesting little street. That building on the right? It looks like a church, but it's been a library for centuries. The city wall used to be just up ahead, and there are four colleges here. And all the way at the end, that's Broad Street. You can see Balliol just on the other side. That's my college."

Spock just stared at her, his expression unchanging, and Nyota felt her cheeks flame all the way up to the tips of her ears. Again. "I'm sorry. I'm babbling. And I sound like a tour guide."

"Yes." Spock's voice was almost too bland, and she looked up sharply. Nyota could have sworn there as a hint of laughter in his eyes.

"I can't help it," said Nyota, digging her hands into her coat pockets and staring down at the street, which was suddenly the most interesting thing in her direct sightline. "When I first moved here for school, I took a couple of tours to get to know the city, and I've shown my family around and friends from home when they visit. I guess it's just automatic."

He didn't respond right away, and Nyota was almost relieved that she wasn't going to embarrass herself again for a minute. There would be plenty of time for that at dinner. But then he asked, "Where are you from?"

"Kenya. A city called Kitui. It's about 175 kilometers east of Nairobi."

"It is 175.5 kilometers," he clarified, and Nyota looked at him in disbelief. How did he know that? Yes, Vulcans had the ability to store and recall vast amounts of information, but being able to recite the exact distance between two cities that had no intergalactic significance bordered on the ridiculous. The frown between Spock's brows reappeared when she didn't say anything, and he elaborated. "I was in Kitui briefly during the break between academic semesters this past December."

"Really?"

The furrow only deepened at her question. "Truly. What would cause you to doubt my word?"

"I don't. It's just, I don't usually meet people who've been there. It's not exactly a tourist mecca. I mean, Nairobi or Mombasa, sure, but not Kitui."

"I passed through the city with other members of the Academy mountaineering club on our way to Mount Kenya."

"Oh." That made sense. While not a destination on its own, Kitui was a popular rest stop for people on their way to somewhere else, like Mount Kenya. "That's so funny, that you were just in my home town."

"I do not see the humor."

Nyota smiled. "I just meant that it was a coincidence."

"Ah." He paused. "I regret I was unable to spend more time there."

"How long did you stay?"

"Fifty-two minutes. It was merely a respite in our journey."

"I take it you didn't get to see much of the city, then."

"Only the refueling station."

"How was that?"

"I found the hygiene facilities sufficiently sanitary and the replicators adequately programmed."

"Wow, that good," said Nyota, her cheeks aching with the effort to keep from bursting out laughing yet again. "Maybe the county tourist board should include that in their next brochure."

"I believe that would be beneficial." The smile that ghosted around his lips confirmed his amusement, and Nyota's footsteps slowed and then stopped.

"You're laughing at me." Spock stopped beside her, again too close for her to meet his eyes without tilting her head back.

"Vulcans do not laugh." His tone was solemn, but corners of his eyes crinkled in a way that was almost teasing.

Nyota pressed her lips together to keep from giving him the satisfaction of seeing her answering grin. "Bullshit," she said, primly, lifting her chin in what she hoped was a defiant manner.

They stood, unmoving, as the seconds ticked away until Spock broke the silence. "We should continue." He reached out his hand, his fingertips stretched and beckoning. He did not look at her but kept his eyes fixed on the hand he offered, as if he was uncertain about what he was doing.

More than anything else, it was the doubt in that look that made Nyota pull her coat more tightly around her and take a step backwards. "You're right. We're not even halfway there."

Spock nodded curtly, this time not closing the distance between them as Nyota led him down another quiet side street towards the swarming pedestrian mall of Cornmarket Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I should put in a disclaimer, yet again, about my very scant personal experience with Oxford. I have clearly taken some liberties with Spock and Nyota's walk through town, and let's just say that several hundred years in the future, things move. Or get replaced.
> 
> If anyone is curious, the piece of music that played in the shop window is The Pavane in F-sharp minor by Gabriel Faure arranged for strings. 
> 
> Lastly, a huge thank you to everyone for reading and a big welcome for those of you who are new to this little story of mine. Sorry this is only a one chapter week. Life has gotten away from me. Hope everyone is having a good weekend!


	11. Chapter 11

In the few minutes it had taken for them to negotiate Cornmarket, Nyota had become increasingly aware that Spock was keeping what could be considered a respectful distance from her. While he still wore the same sedate expression, a stiff formality had crept into his manner, and he hadn't spoken since she'd balked at taking his hand a few minutes earlier.

The thick, heavy silence had settled between them like low-lying fog, and she was at a loss at how to lift it. She kept sneaking glances at him, but he was studying the street in front of him with a single-minded focus that was decidedly Vulcan. His sudden distance had to be a reaction to her pulling away from him, and she didn't know what to do.

She hadn't meant to put him off; she'd only wanted a little more time to figure things out. She'd only wanted to be certain that…what? That when he'd offered his hand, he wasn't just trying to keep her on her feet until he got some food in her?  Her mistake had been almost immediately apparent, and she'd been trying to fix it, trying to break through his barrier of unflappable composure, ever since.

But everything she could think of to say sounded inane or pointless or like an excuse, so the silence had remained. Nyota was starting to fear that she'd messed things up so much with that one moment of indecision, that there might be no undoing it.

"Your hotel is just ahead," she finally offered, gesturing towards the large, brick building on the far corner across the street. It wasn't perfect, but it was a start. And it was exactly the wrong thing to say, given the way Spock's posture grew even more rigid and upright, if that was even possible.

A muscle along his jaw twitched, the only other visible sign of agitation that managed to slip through his outward calm. She half expected him not to answer, and her eyes drifted to the green of the darkened churchyard they passed so that she wouldn't be tempted to stare at him, willing him to speak. But he did answer, in a voice that was flat and cool. "Do you wish to part company?"

"What? No." Nyota jerked to a stop, rooted to the pavement with her mouth agape. Her pulse pounded so loudly in her ears, she couldn't hear anything else. She stammered, "I mean…I didn't say that."

Spock watched her solemnly, and Nyota struggled to stay calm under the weight of his gaze. His features were so carefully composed, his expression was difficult to read, but the quizzical cant of his head was already becoming a familiar gesture.

"If you have reconsidered –"

"No," she said, more forcefully this time, "it's not…that's not it. I just thought, maybe, you had changed  _your_  mind."

"I do not understand." His brow creased. "What has caused you to reach that conclusion?"

Nyota shrugged, a small, helpless gesture. "You've been so quiet."

"There has been nothing I wished to communicate."

"Oh." Heat blazed across her cheeks, and she looked down and studied the toes of her boots. "I'm sorry. I guess… I thought…" She trailed off.

"There is no need to apologize." Spock's footsteps were slow and deliberate, and when he reached her, he bowed his head to speak quietly in her ear. "My intentions for this evening are unchanged."

His voice curled around her, soft and intimate all at once, and Nyota felt his breath whisper against her skin. She was about to ask what his intentions were, exactly, when she swayed, suddenly off balance again, and she grabbed at the front of his coat to steady herself.

The material was soft and sturdy and smelled faintly of incense and something else. Something warm and earthy and almost smoky, so familiar and yet, at the same time, completely unknown. She closed her eyes and inhaled. Gradually, the momentary faintness passed, but she stayed there with her eyes squeezed shut, her nose pressed into his shoulder, breathing him in.

"Nyota?" Careful fingers trailed over the curved top of her ear and tangled in her hair. An unexpected heat rushed through her at his touch, and she gasped, jarred back to the street corner where they stood. She blinked and lifted her head, and the flush that spread across her face burned even hotter.

Spock eased away from her, although he maintained a grip on her arm, as if he was uncertain she'd regained her balance, and Nyota forced herself to unclench her hand and let go of his coat.

"I apologize," he said. He ran his hand down his chest, smoothing the fabric where she'd crumpled it between her fingers. "My actions were inappropriate given the public setting. And I have been remiss in not insisting we stop at an earlier juncture. It is apparent you are in need of sustenance." He drew himself up until he stood tall and straight and clasped his hands behind his back. He looked at her expectantly.

His presumption that he knew her capabilities and limits better than she did herself, his innate confidence that his logic was unassailable, was so…so Vulcan. Nyota's voice failed her momentarily. It was precisely that attitude that was at the root of the very human-centric prejudice that Vulcans were haughty, disdainful, arrogant.

Nyota knew better, but she hadn't been on the receiving end of that kind of unbending certainty for years, and she was a little thrown. And given the faintly hollow ache in her belly that had nothing to do with how Spock had touched her or how close he still was, he was probably right. Still, some stubborn little part of her dug in its heels.

She was still struggling with her own obstinance when he spoke again. "What is the remaining distance to our destination?"

"Um, it's a few more streets down. But it's not far." When he remained silent, she brushed his sleeve with her fingertips. "It was only for a minute. I'm fine."

Spock didn't look convinced. "Perhaps we should consider dining elsewhere."

"There's a restaurant at your hotel. It's really the next closest place," she explained. "Or the next closest place that isn't a fast food chain or a pub."

"The probability that we will encounter other members of my team or our adviser in the common areas is unacceptably high."

"We could order room service," she suggested cautiously, ignoring that she had just technically invited herself up to his room.

"That is not an adequate solution. I am sharing lodging with Cadet Schroeder and another of my teammates."

"Oh. So I guess you don't have your own room."

"I do not." He paused before continuing quietly. "However, the prospect of spending time with you privately is agreeable. Perhaps there is another option."

As far as she was concerned, going someplace private was more than agreeable. And given the way his tone had deepened when he voiced his preference that they be alone, even the quietest, emptiest restaurant seemed far too public.

The idea that came to her was probably a bad one, so she started talking before she could change her mind. "The Thai place I mentioned…it's really not that much farther. We could have been halfway there by now if we hadn't stopped to debate it." Nyota kept her tone as light as she was able, but her stomach still did a little flip. "They, um, have a takeaway menu. We could get food and go to my flat."

She tried to breathe slowly as Spock pondered her suggestion. Even in the 23rd century, bringing someone home still carried with it the implicit promise of sex, the way it had for centuries. Would he know that? Oh, she hoped his didn't know that.

"Your residence, it is in the area." It wasn't a question, and she remembered telling him she lived near the hotel and the restaurant.

"It's really not that far."

Spock answered without hesitation, as if this was the result he'd wanted all along. "Your proposal is acceptable."

Nyota smiled, pushed by him without looking at him, and crossed the street. He followed her without comment. His longer legs carried him several paces ahead of her before he realized and slowed his pace, and while his expression remained meticulously composed, she could swear he looked just a little sheepish.

They walked without speaking, but the silence was warm and comfortable. Nothing like the oppressive weight of what had fallen between them earlier. The lingering memory of the way Spock's fingers had played in her hair repeated itself over and over again in her mind, and Nyota thought about moving closer and slipping her hand into his. And then she thought better of it. Things had only just thawed, and she wanted to let things settle before she upset them again. But then again…

She kept going back and forth and back and forth, and by the time they reached the restaurant, which was tucked into the ground floor of a multi-storied building that was part of a row of near-identical structures, she'd changed her mind almost a dozen times. And then it was too late because Spock was wordlessly holding the manually-operated door open for her and ushering her inside.

They disagreed on almost everything when they first reviewed the menu, so it was a surprise that after some negotiation, they'd ordered enough food for more than a half dozen people. And after they settled the bill, Spock automatically moved to take both of the bags that were presented when their order was ready. Nyota didn't even try to hide her smirk when he realized that, with both his hands full, he couldn't open the door to the street.

"Nyota, if you would not mind."

"You know," she said as pulled the door open for him, "I'm perfectly capable of carrying one of those."

He fixed her with a flat stare as he stepped past her outside and waited for her to join him. "I am Vulcan. Physiologically, I am better suited to this task than you." He spoke matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.

"Uh huh." Nyota headed towards the corner at the end of the street. She could see out of the corner of her eye how Spock turned towards her, his head angled to one side as he parsed her tone. He must have determined that she didn't agree with him, because he continued.

"I possess strength and stamina that is superior to that of a human, and the disparity is only made greater by Earth's lower gravity relative to Ki'shar, its more oxygen-rich atmosphere, and our sexes." He spoke with a practiced patience, as if he had explained this many times before, and Nyota couldn't help grinning at what was beginning to sound like a lecture on comparative xenobiology.

At the end of the street, Nyota turned into a pocket of residential buildings. It was quiet and softly lit, lined with houses with flat, buff-colored walls and tall, narrow windows. But even though the light was dimmer off the main road, she could tell Spock was watching her carefully. "You're right. You  _are_  stronger than me, and if between here and my flat we need to move some very large rocks or we're attached by Klingons, I will gladly defer to your superior capabilities."

"Both of those scenarios are unlikely."

Nyota laughed. "You're not going to tell me the exact probability?"

"No." Spock peered down at her, his brow lifted apprehensively. But then his features smoothed, and he inclined his head towards her. There was a faint gleam in his eyes. "It is a near certainty that you would only attempt to find fault with my calculations."

She laughed again. "You're right. I would." She paused and looked at him, at the bags he carried so effortlessly, at the way he'd positioned himself between her and the street again, and something that had been nagging at her since they'd started walking came back to her. "So, if carrying the bags is just a practical matter of physical strength, then how do you explain everything else?"

"You will need to be more specific."

Nyota rolled her eyes at his bland reply. In her admittedly limited experience, no one played clueless better than a Vulcan. She'd just have to spell it out for him. "Helping me with my coat. Opening doors. Walking on the outside of the pavement. Keeping me behind you when you thought there was too much traffic. Those things."

"You are questioning my use of human social conventions." Spock regarded her through narrowed eyes.

"Social conventions?"

"The actions and protocols that are considered normative within a society. Common courtesy."

"I know what social conventions are."

They had reached the next corner, and Spock stopped and waited for her to direct him. "It's this way," she said and crossed to the opposite side of the street and towards the square at the end of the road with its brightly lit park. Their progress was silent except for the solid sound of Spock's boots against the pavement.

"You know," Nyota continued, "a lot of those common courtesies are based on outmoded gender stereotypes."

"I have offended you."

"I'm not offended," she said quickly. "I'm surprised. None of the guys I know do those kinds of things."

"Then they are at fault," he said, his voice both toneless and dismissive at the same time.

"Just because they don't observe customs that are so old they don't have a real purpose anymore?"

Spock stopped so suddenly that Nyota was several steps ahead of him before she noticed he was no longer beside her.

"You are incorrect." He spoke so softly, almost earnestly, that she turned, as much to see the look on his face as to hear him. He stood in the shadow of a building, the light from the street lamps barely brushing over him. "Even if the original purpose behind a social rule is outdated, it does not necessarily stand to reason that the custom is no longer relevant. For example, common courtesy, the proper use of manners, is one of the ways in which humans communicate their regard for one another."

"Regard?" She took a tentative step back towards Spock, incomprehensibly drawn by the ease with which he lectured her on human niceties while standing on a darkened street holding a carrier bag in each hand.

"Yes, regard." His brow creased. "Admiration. Respect. Have my actions been ambiguous?"

His words made her breath catch and her mouth go dry. Is that what he thought? She knew she should say something, but all she could do was stand there, staring at him. Trying to see his face through the shadows.

"Your company tonight has given me a great deal of satisfaction," Spock continued when she didn't respond, "but I have experienced difficulty in ascertaining your wishes. Are my attentions unwelcome?"

Before they'd left the bar, Nyota hadn't been sure about Spock's interest in her. It had been entirely possible that his curiosity had only been intellectual. Platonic. Without any romantic or sexual intent. And that any heat she'd felt was entirely one-sided. But what had happened between them outside the churchyard…she could still feel the heat from his fingers tracing over her ear. It wasn't just her. And there'd been so many other clues. But she'd been so concerned with ascertaining what he wanted from her that she'd neglected to consider whether she'd been clear about her own desires. Except that she really hadn't been certain what those desires were. Well, she was certain now.

She moved closer to him, edging into the shadow where he stood. With each step, her heart hammered more and more loudly until she was sure he could hear it.

"Nyota?"

She let her hand drift up the front of his coat to the soft, black scarf he wore wrapped around his neck. The densely-knit fabric was thick and luxuriant, and she twined her fingers into the ends that hung down over his chest and lifted up on her toes so that she could speak softly in his ear, the way he had bent over her at the churchyard.

"Your attentions are not unwelcome," she said, her voice little more than a sigh.

Spock's only reaction was a marked yet controlled increase in his breathing. He made no effort to step away from her, so Nyota pressed her lips into the warm hollow just beneath his ear and trailed soft, teasing kisses along the curve of his jaw.

She only stopped when his breath caught and stuttered, and she settled back onto flat feet and tugged on his scarf again. Not hard. Just enough gentle pressure to pull him down to her, but he stopped short. His eyes were hooded, and his mouth hovered over hers. His throat worked convulsively as he swallowed and then found his voice. "You do not need—"

The raw longing in his voice squeezed her heart, and she lifted back onto her toes and brushed her lips against his. So feather-light and quick, it was almost like it didn't happen. And then she pulled away. After all, they were still outside on a public street, even if they were hidden in shadow. But before she could step back and let go of the iron grip she still had on his clothing, Spock brought his mouth back to hers.

He kissed her gently at first, and yet so deliberately that the ground beneath her feet rolled and pitched, and Nyota had to lean against him to keep from swaying along with it. He was so warm. It radiated through his layers of clothes, and she slipped her arm around his waist so that she could sink into that heat. Every place their bodies pressed together, it seeped in through her skin and became a throbbing aching mass deep inside her, and she breathed a small, mewling sigh against his mouth.

His entire body tensed at that tiny sound, and he kissed her with an urgency that stole what little breath she had left and threatened to buckle her knees. If she hadn't already been wrapped around him, she might have stumbled. Her hand clenched into the small of his back, and she tried to draw him impossibly closer.

When Spock's tongue brushed against hers, hot and unexpectedly rough, a surprised gasp escaped from her lips, and he froze, the connection between them shattered by something so small. Releasing the white-knuckled grip she'd maintained on his scarf, Nyota let the arm she'd wrapped around his waist drop to her side and stepped back.

She hadn't notice before how Spock's breathing had grown ragged and heavy, and even in the shadows, Nyota could tell his pupils were dilated and huge, turning his warm, brown eyes black and truly alien for the first time since they’d met. Under his unblinking stare, the need inside her clenched and shuddered, and she nearly leaned back into him, stretched up his body to kiss him again and again. But in the next second, he closed his eyes and took a deep, controlled breath, and she marveled at how quickly he brought himself back to his usual state of calm. She knew that if she could see herself right now, she'd find a hot, quivering mess.

When Spock opened his eyes again, they were the ones she had grown used to seeing, but he watched her intently as he waited for her to indicate their next steps. She reached for one of the carrier bags he held and took it from him so that she could slip her free hand into his now empty one. Their fingers tangled together as she settled her hand into his, and Spock sucked in a quick, surprised breath at the contact. The gesture was so muted, she probably wouldn't have noticed it if his fingers hadn't tightened around hers.

"Come on." Nyota smiled at him and tugged at his hand. "The flat’s just around the corner on the square. It's the building with the blue door."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for continuing to plug along with this convoluted path I've been tripping down for I don't know how long at this point. I appreciate all of the kudos and comments and everyone who just checks in to read the new chapters. As for the chapter, it's about time, right?


	12. Chapter 12

The stairwell leading to the flat Nyota shared with Sophie was always too dark at night. During the day, light streamed in through the tall, thin panes of leaded glass that lined the exterior wall, illuminating beautiful mill and plaster work. But after dark, the lamps that lit the stairs and common hallways gave off a soft, intimate light that was reminiscent of the old, incandescent fixtures from the early days of electricity, almost as dim as candlelight.

"The lighting is inadequate." Spock blinked rapidly, his eyes adjusting to the low light as Nyota closed the front door to the building behind him. He hadn't spoken since pulling away from her on street corner, but his eyes had been fixed on her for the remainder of the walk to her building, their fingers intertwined. And when she'd pulled her hand away to let them into the entrance hall, his grip had tightened briefly before releasing her.

"I know." She started up the wide staircase, and Spock followed. "We're on the third floor. There isn't a lift, only stairs."

"The lack of modernization in a structure of this age is unusual. Based on the architecture, it appears to have been built in the latter part of the nineteenth century. It does not appear that it has changed significantly since it was constructed."

"Um, not really. Sophie's mother, Rose? She updated all the mechanical and environmental systems, the network wiring, the security, everything, when she bought the place a couple of years ago. She bought the whole square, really.  Sophie said she spent a lot of time making sure all the buildings still looked old, but they’re really state of the art. You'll see once we get inside the flat"

"Fascinating." His voice was so intently quiet, she stopped on the landing between the first and second floors and turned back to look at him.

Spock stood on the step just below the landing which lessened their height difference so that it was practically non-existent.  Nyota hadn't realized he was so close. Their eyes were perfectly level, and their bodies brushed together with every careful breath she took.

She'd never noticed before how stereotypically romantic the lighting in the common areas was, warm and flickering and obscuring the outlines of the stairwell in shadow. Then again, in the six months she'd lived in the building, she'd never brought someone home she wanted to get tangled up in the dark with, either. Her stomach gave a nervous flip, and she glanced down at the rosewood cap of the newel post and traced her finger along the swirls of its intricately carved leaves.

"Really?"

"Yes."

Spock's weight shifted forward, and Nyota stepped back to give him room to climb the last step up to the landing. When he did, once again standing so close she could hear the quiet whisper of his breathing, a flush washed over her in response to the heat of his body, and she took another step away. And then another when he advanced on her again and again until she felt the press of the solid plaster wall between the landing windows against her back.

"Spock?"

His fingers were soft against her cheek, and he tipped her face up and kissed her. Once, and then again. He was exacting in his exploration of her lips, as if she was something to be learned or discovered. When the kiss finally ended, her breathing was ragged and shallow, and the only reason she managed to stay on her feet was because she was still supported by the wall.

"We're only halfway there," she murmured and edged away from the wall. She could feel him watching her, the intensity of his gaze a teasing weight between her shoulder blades, and she had to swallow her heart back down into her chest from where it had somehow lodged in her throat while Spock had kissed her. The way it pounded had nothing to do with how she hurried up the remainder of the steps to the top floor and to the door of her flat.

The hall outside the flat was no different than the other floors in the building: the same soft, yellow light illuminating what looked like three solid, carved wood manual doors flanking either side of the hall. But like much of the rest of the building, the doors only looked like they'd been there for centuries.

For a second, Nyota considered what Spock would do if she pushed him into the darkened corner next to her door and kissed him again, instead of keying the lock. Her hand hovered in front of the old-fashioned keyhole plate set into the door that hid the entry sensor. It would be the easiest thing to put down the bag she carried and maneuver him back against the wall. She was sure he wouldn't object, at least not a lot. But there were two other units on the floor, and it was early enough that someone was bound to come home just when things got interesting. So instead, she pressed her hand to the sensor so that it could read her biosignature, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

The lights and heat were already on, triggered when she'd let them into the vestibule on the ground floor. Spock followed her into the flat, and she moved to take the second carrier bag from him and deposit the food in the kitchen. "You can put your coat and hat by the door," she called back into the living room.

Nyota unceremoniously dumped the bags onto the nearest counter and hurried back to the entry. On the way, she fumbled with her own coat in her haste to remove it, gave a silent sigh of relief once she was able to drape the garment over one of the hooks that lined the wall next to the door and turned to Spock.

While he had taken off his hat, he still wore his heavy overcoat and hadn't stepped any further into the flat. Instead, he lingered near the doorway, looking uncomfortably stiff and tense even for a Vulcan, and unnecessarily smoothed the front of his thick, black hair. Nyota's stomach twisted as she watched him. Why was he still near the door? Why was his coat still on?

She reached for the red military cap he held. "Let me take that." She tugged the hat out of his grip and placed it on the shelf above the coat hooks.

Spock still didn't move, even though she'd commandeered his hat. He focused intently on her face, even though his expression was as calmly composed as ever, and Nyota shifted and tried to ignore the sharp pang of disappointment at the scarf that remained tightly wrapped around his neck and the overcoat that was still fastened up to his chin.

Well, if she was enough of an adult to bring him back to her flat with even vague thoughts of taking him to bed, and once she'd kissed him, her thoughts in that direction had been anything but vague, then she was enough of an adult to ask whether he'd changed his mind now that he was there. Or whether he'd even realized that was why he was there. But given the way he'd kissed her, how could he not know?

Nyota shook her head and ordered herself to stop overthinking things. She'd been second guessing herself all night, and it had only caused confusion for both of them. Not thinking so much could only be an improvement. Or at least it couldn't be any worse. She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and started talking.

"All right. I'm just going to say this, and if there's been some misunderstanding, please tell me." Spock nodded, and Nyota ignored the way her heart raced and how she was having problems swallowing. "I'm not a virgin –"

"Nyota." Spock's brow tightened so minutely she nearly missed it, but it broadcast his confusion with startling clarity.

"No," she said, her tone harsher than she'd intended. She drew a deep breath to help settle her nerves, and when she continued, her voice was calmer, although she still spoke in a rush in her haste to say what she needed to say. "I'm not a virgin, but I've almost never brought anyone home with me before, so I don't have any experience with this sort of thing. And I've never…never with someone who wasn't human. I just wanted to make sure we had the same expectations before I end up doing something even more embarrassing than this."

Spock blinked. "If you are referring to engaging in sexual relations, I am amenable and assure you that I have sufficient experience with human females to ensure that our coupling is satisfactory."

"Oh." Nyota's face and neck flushed hot, and her heart hammered against her ribs. "Oh."

"If you have reconsidered, I will not take offense."

"I haven't reconsidered, but I wasn't sure if that's what  _you_  wanted."

He frowned, the barest twitch of his lips, and when he spoke, he almost sounded confused. "On what do you base your concern?"

"You're still wearing your coat."

Spock glanced down, as if to confirm what she had told him. The tips of his ears took on a faint green cast. "Indeed, although it was not my intention."

He unwound the scarf from his neck, and Nyota took it from him so that he could unseal the front closure of his overcoat and shrug out of the heavy garment. It quickly joined hers, draped over an available hook with an easy precision that should have been impossible but, instead, made every other jacket and scarf hanging there look sloppy and out of place.

She slipped past him and was looping the scarf over the collar of his coat when her comm rumbled in her front pocket. She ignored it and gave the end of the scarf a futile tug to try to get it to lay in neat folds and only succeeded in getting it tangled up with the sleeve of a neighboring coat, but her comm continued to vibrate against her hip, and she scrambled to dig it out of her pocket. She was in the process of powering it off when she turned back to Spock and saw that his own communications device was open in his hand.

"I have sent you the code for my most recent health certification," he said. "I believe you will find my information satisfactory."

Nyota opened her message queue; the one at the top bore the Starfleet insignia, and she sighed. She'd forgotten about all of the formalities involved with having sex with someone for the first time.

The last time she'd done this had been more than a year before when she'd first slept with Charlie, the only other guy she’d ever brought home with her back when she lived in student housing at her college, and even though she'd heard stories about his philandering, she hadn't quite believed it until she saw the total number of his past conquests blinking up at her from her comm screen. And she'd gone ahead and had sex with him anyway. Not her finest decision. Although, in her own defense, Charlie could charm when he wanted, and she'd been a little blinded by it. At least she'd made him use condoms, no matter how up-to-date his shots were. And now she was on that list. Her and she didn't want to know how many others in the eleven months since they'd broken up.

Nyota shook her head and banished Charlie from her mind the way she wished she could banish him from her life and pulled up Spock's certification using the access code he provided. The information was concise and relevant, listing his number of past sexual partners; their genders, species, and planets of origin; the date of his last sexual encounter; his current method of contraception; and his current STD vaccinations, the standard ones for both Vulcan and human adaptive immunity. Strange, but then Starfleet might require certain redundancies in ensuring the health of its members.

His history of sexually transmitted diseases was clean, not that she'd expected differently. A standard verification protocol confirmed its authenticity, and she was just finishing her review when she heard Spock snap his comm closed.

"Do you require further explanation?" he asked as he put his communicator inside his jacket.

"No, you?"

"I do not."

And there it was again, that subtle upwards tick at the corners of his mouth whenever he seem pleased with something. Nyota stepped closer and slipped her hand into his. The way his lips curved even more broadly when her fingers tickled against his palm made something in her chest brighten and bubble, and she answered what was clearly a smile with one of her own. Pulling at his hand, she backed away and led him across the room. "My bedroom's this way."

"Do you not wish to eat first?"

Nyota jerked to a stop. Was he kidding? He had to be kidding after all that. There was no way he wasn't kidding

But the look on his face was blank, without even a hint of laughter.

"No!" she blurted. "I don't. Do you?"

"I do not require nourishment at this juncture. However, you –"

"I don't want to eat right now." To her ears, she sounded firm, absolute, not to be argued with. But Spock only lifted an eyebrow at her objection, and her next words weren't half so assured. "It's just, after what happened outside… And in the hall—"

"My behavior was inappropriate. I should not have initiated physical intimacy in the public areas of your residence."

"I didn't mean the landing. I meant in the hall outside the door to the flat…" Her voice trailed off, and heat bloomed across her cheeks and spread down her neck. She hadn't meant to tell him about that and really didn't want to explain what she'd been thinking of doing to him. And if he thought a few kisses on the landing had been inappropriate…"If kissing me on the landing was wrong, then what about what I did outside on the corner?"

"That was a logical action born out of circumstance." Nyota laughed, pulled her hand from his, and clapped her fingers over her mouth, and Spock continued. "If you were not speaking about what occurred on the landing, then—"

"It was nothing," she said quickly, but Spock only stared at her, and even though his expression didn't alter, it was clear he didn't believe her. "Really. Anyway, I didn't do it, so it doesn't matter."

"What actions were you considering?" He closed the space between them and drew her hand back into his. "I am curious."

Even if she'd wanted to describe the fantasy she'd briefly entertained out in the hall, her mouth was so suddenly dry she would have barely been able to choke out the words. Nyota knew she shouldn't be nervous.

But she was.

Because she was standing right up against the line that separated them. The one between two people who just happened to have met once and lovers.

And there was no going back once that line was crossed. If she wanted, they could still go into the kitchen, unpack the food, and sit down and eat and talk, and Nyota was sure that Spock would be interesting and engaging and it would be maybe one of the best conversations she'd ever had, but that's where it would begin and end. It was the safe choice. The logical choice. But she’d been making the safe and logical choice about everything ever since the blow up with Charlie, questioning every decision she made, sometimes letting Sophie decide for her, which had led to a whole other set of problems, and she was tired of it. 

Besides, it wasn't what either she or Spock wanted.

But still, once they stepped across that line, whether they never saw one another again or if they knew each other for the rest of their lives, that choice would always lay between them.

The memory of Charlie and how she'd always be linked to him that way buzzed in and around her thoughts like a gnat. She'd been so oblivious with him. But she'd never be able to take that step so blindly again, and she supposed she should be thankful to him for that at least. This time, she wasn't blind. Spock wasn't Charlie, and she only had to look down at the way he held her hand to know that.

Her hands were big for someone her size. And strong, and limber, and quick. They were her father's hands, and she loved that about them. Her father always bragged that they were the one thing she'd inherited from him and that he was thankful to God for that because he wouldn't have made a pretty girl, not that being pretty was more important than the type of person you chose to be, he was always quick to add. But Spock's hand practically engulfed hers, and he seemed content just to be, with her hand in his.

Holding her hand was something Charlie had hated and had tried to avoid whenever possible. Claimed it was an "unnecessary public display," but Nyota knew that had been a lie. Charlie's hands were beautiful. They were soft and slender, with thin, delicate, clever fingers, and they were far more eloquent than anything that had ever come out of his mouth. He was extremely vain about them.

What he’d really hated was her hands. Or to be more specific, how he thought her hands made his hands look weak and small and, though he’d never said it, feminine. Charlie never wanted to look weak or incapable, and he'd twisted his hand out of hers whenever she'd tried to take it. After the first few times, she'd stopped trying. She still didn't know how that hadn't triggered every warning bell she had.

Spock's fingers twitched against hers, restless and impatient, and Nyota snapped out of her head and back into the middle of her living room in such a rush, the room seemed to spin. The light feeling in her chest evaporated when she realized that she'd stood there for god only knows how long dithering about her ex. But Spock hadn't pushed. He'd waited, making what happened next her choice.

No, he wasn't Charlie. He didn't act or think or even speak like him, and even though their hands were still clasped together, he was suddenly much too far away. Before she realized she was moving, Nyota crossed the short distance between them and buried her nose into the warm hollow between his neck and shoulder. He didn't smell like Charlie, either.

She inhaled deeply, breathing him in. His scent had changed since they'd first drawn together outside his hotel. It was deeper…darker…more vital and complex somehow. It curled up and around her and sank into her through her skin until it coiled deep in her belly where it smoldered and ignited and radiated heat through every part of her body, and she had to lean against him just to keep from swaying.

And then she knew. She wasn't hungry or even a little bit drunk. It was him throwing off her equilibrium. Every time he'd been close enough to touch.

Nyota smiled and took another long breath and then shifted to press a feather-soft kiss to one corner of his mouth and then the other. Spock's eyes fluttered closed at the first touch of her lips, and he made a soft, helpless sound deep in his throat at the second. It was so quiet, it might not have happened at all except for the way she trembled with the need to hear him made that sound again.

When her lips brushed his a third time, he reached for her. His hand tangled into the hair at the nape of her neck, and he brought her mouth back to his with an urgency that left her giddy. There was nothing about this kiss that was gentle or careful. It was warm and rough and demanding and hungry, and Nyota gasped when his fingers dug into the bare skin along her spine, nearly pulling her off her feet and sending sparks quivering along her nerves. Her own need pulsed and throbbed with every pull of his lips, and she melted against him and wound her arms around his back so that she could press him harder, farther.

And then as quickly as it had started, Spock's grip on her loosened, and he pulled away. He pressed one more kiss to her mouth. Soft. Serious. And then another, lighter still. Then it was only his breath against her lips, his hand caressing her back, his fingers stroking along her neck, and the hard length of him pressed against her hip.

His eyes were still closed, and his breathing was rapid and deep. Each exhale was sharp and ragged, but his face was still as he worked to quiet himself. Nyota felt a hollow ache just where her heart should be and moved to kiss him again to try and banish it. After all, he'd fallen into her so easily when she'd kissed him the first time, it was only logical that he would do so again.

But Spock released his hold around her waist and stepped back. As his breathing calmed and he opened his eyes, Nyota struggled to keep the way that her heart shrank from showing on her face.

"Your restraint was prudent," he said. "Had you followed your impulses, I believe we would still be outside your door."

Nyota allowed herself a small, hopeful smile at his confession. "Really? Outside in the hall?"

Spock reached for her hand again and ran his thumb across the back of her knuckles, raising the fine hairs along her forearm and making her shiver. "Do you still wish to show me your bedroom?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just a quick note of warning. the next chapter is not going to be the chapter you think it is, given where this left off. I need to get some plot details out of the way before anybody gets down to business, and I figured it's better now than interrupt things once they really get going. Thanks again to everybody for reading!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I warned everyone at the end of the last chapter, but I thought it bore repeating. I'm pretty sure this isn't the chapter people were hoping for. I'll be hiding out at the end of the chapter if you want to throw things at me.

Martin walked into a bar.

He chuckled even though the joke was old and pretty terrible. But it was always the first thing that came to him whenever he, well, walked into a bar. Technically, The Spinning Dog wasn't a bar; it was a pub. Part of an international franchise with a location in just about any city you could name and just few blocks away from where he'd left Sophie. He'd had to sit in the bar where he and Spock had met the girls for over half an hour downing glass after glass of water and waiting for the detox he'd ordered to take effect. And the entire time, Sophie had been all over those two assholes from MIT.

He could have picked a different detox. One that worked faster. That mitigated the symptoms of intoxication or that neutralized the alcohol instead of completely eradicating it. But then he'd still have to deal with the inevitable hangover. The detox he'd taken stimulated the metabolism when it mixed with alcohol and burned it right out of the system and then it went dormant. Unless you had another drink during the effective period, and then it would come blazing back to life.

The taste of the glucose solution the treatment came suspended in still coated the inside of his mouth and lingered on his tongue. It hadn't been cold enough to blunt the flavor, and orange wouldn't have been his first choice, but there hadn't been a selection. Martin knew the sickeningly sweet syrup was a precaution, giving the drug something to work on just in case it needed a kick to go inactive after it worked its way through the liquor and you hadn't had anything to eat in the last couple of hours. Just like he hadn't.

By the time he'd felt steady enough to leave, he'd almost felt sorry for the poor bastards Sophie had hooked into. They clearly looked like they'd just won the lottery. Hell, he'd been tempted to warn them about what they were in for, but those two dupes weren't about to listen to the guy warning them away from the hot girl in the see-through dress.  _He_  wouldn't have when he'd been in their position a year ago. Not when Sophie had been busy mopping up the vodka stain she'd so artfully put on the front of his pants.

Martin had bolted up the stairs and out onto the street almost before his head had had a chance to clear. At first, he'd just stood there next to the bar's crowded patio area and seriously considered admitting defeat and going back to the hotel. Given the way he'd scampered after Ponytail, Spock probably wouldn't be there, at least not until later, until after he'd figured out he wasn't going to get anywhere with her until he promised her...something. He didn't want to think what. The up side was that he wouldn't have to deal with the Vulcan's pointed indifference until maybe the next day if he was lucky.

He'd headed towards the hotel because he hadn't been sure where else to go, but it had felt too much like tucking his tail between his legs and running away, and damn it! He hadn't done anything wrong.

He hadn't been sure exactly where he was going, but he'd walked more and more quickly until he was gulping air and ready to punch through the next brick wall he saw. Anything to make him forget how angry he was at Spock for not listening and at Uhura for being just the right combination of hot and smart to flick the Vulcan's "on" switch so that he wasn't thinking straight. But mostly at Sophie for being a manipulative bitch. And for treating him like an asshole when all he'd done was call her on it. And for making him doubt himself. He might not be the Starfleet golden boy his brother Hank was, but he wasn't exactly a washout, either.

He'd stopped on the next corner and commed Cadet Solórzano. Shattering his hand or getting dragged down to the police station for vandalism or property damage or whatever they called it in England was the last thing he needed. She'd mentioned earlier that she and the rest of the team were planning to meet the team from UCLA at some pub in the city center, and that was how he found himself walking into The Spinning Dog not more than 20 minutes after he'd left Sophie peddling herself for drinks at the underground bar.

The pub was well-lit and, from the look of it, crowded with tourists. Solórzano had said their group had a large table near the front windows, and while he recognized a few of the other teams from the Invitational through the glass, he couldn't see any of his teammates. Martin took the steps up to the entry two at a time, eager to see someone happy about his being there, and nearly stumbled when his knees gave a little. The detox was still working on metabolizing the alcohol is his system, and he was feeling a little shaky and nauseated. And he was starving. All signs that the drug wasn't done but that it had already burned through everything he had in him that wasn't liquor, including the shot glass full of glucose, and if he didn't get something to eat soon, it would start eating away at whatever stores of blood sugar he had left well before it got rid of the last of the alcohol.

The main room was almost disconcertingly familiar. It was the same large and open space as the location in San Francisco and filled with people. Martin couldn't see more than a few feet in any direction. As he searched the crowded room for his team, he heard a familiar voice call out.

"Schroeder!" Solórzano was standing on a chair, waving her arms. Martin raised his hand in return to let her know he'd seen her and wound his way through the people and tables to where she and the members of the UCLA team were gathered.

"Hey." Martin draped his coat over the empty chair next to Solórzano and across the table from the dark-haired girl she'd mentioned rooming with when she was an undergrad at Davis. He collapsed into it in a grateful heap and looked up. "What in the Alpha Quadrant are you doing?"

Solórzano was still standing on the chair searching the crowd. "I'm trying to get the server back over here. We've only got one pitcher of beer left and we all want to order dinner."

"You have to order at the bar."

"No, we don't.  That’s not the way it works in The City, and a girl came over when we first got here."

"Are you sure it was to take orders?

She shrugged. "Take orders. Fawn over Zhelen. Same thing. Anyway, she put in our drink order and brought it to the table."

"Speaking of, where are Zhelen and Gunheim?"

"Playing pool with Dave and Heather. Do you remember everybody?" she asked, gesturing to the other girls at the table.

"Yeah, Angela, Kelly, and Carissa, right?" Martin turned towards them.

The well-endowed blonde at the end of the table giggled, and Martin took a moment to appreciate the way her shirt pulled tight across her breasts when she laughed. "It's Caressa," she corrected, her voice light and breathy. "Like the word caress with an 'a' on the end."

Across the table from him, Angela, a pretty dark-haired girl, rolled her eyes fondly and smiled. "I'd tell you that she's drunk, and let's not kid ourselves, she's a little drunk. But she's like this sober, too."

"Good to know. I won't ask her anything taxing." Martin reached for the pitcher of dark beer in the center of the table and an empty glass. He paused for a second and briefly considered the wisdom of drinking on an empty stomach, especially with the detox still active and bubbling away. Probably not the best idea, but he filled the glass anyway. He'd just sip at it and make it last the rest of the night. And he'd get water with his food. He was topping off the glass when a frigid, blue hand clapped him on the shoulder.

"Schroeder," Cadet Zhelen murmured in his ear. "What happened to your 'sure thing'?"

"No comment." He grimaced and reached for a pile of napkins and wiped up the beer that had sloshed over the rim of his glass when the Andorian greeted him. He shouldn't have said anything to Solórzano. The girl couldn't keep anything quiet. It still mystified him how she'd survived resistance training.

"Is this all the beer we have left?" asked a red-haired girl who had followed Zhelen over from the pool tables and slipped into the empty chair next to Angela. Another girl with black hair took the chair next to her. Heather and Dave. Martin recognized them from the pub quiz the night before.

"Hey, Martin." Cadet Gunheim smiled at him, and she sat down at the end of the table. "Celli said that your plans fell through."

"Yeah. Is that the only thing you guys have to talk about?"

Zhelen broke in. "No, but the tale of your romantic failure was most amusing." He looked up at Solórzano hopping around on the top of the chair, waving her arms and looking more and more like a demented go-go dancer. "What is she doing?"

"She's trying to get someone to take our order," Martin explained. "I told her we need to order at the bar."

"That will be unnecessary." Zhelen raised a long arm and beckoned to a girl wearing an apron and a tight t-shirt emblazoned with a picture of the pub's coat of arms on the other side of the room, and Martin was surprised to see her respond immediately.

Solórzano let out a frustrated snort and glared down at Zhelen from her perch on the chair. "How do you do that? I've been waving my arms for at least 10 minutes." She took Zhelen's proffered hand and jumped off the chair. Crossing her arms over her chest, she glared up at the Andorian. "Well?"

"I am 199 centimeters tall, blue, and very attractive to female humanoids," he stated, as if this was the simplest thing in the world. "And I have no doubt she has heard the tales of the sexual prowess of Andori males. Exceptions tend to be made." Zhelen turned to take in the rest of the occupants of the table, his antennae poised and eager.

Caressa giggled, and Gunheim rolled her eyes. "Down, boy."

"Yeah," Heather said, flipping her red curls over her shoulder with a smirk. "Didn't you embarrass yourself enough at the pool table?"

"I was merely being chivalrous," Zhelen replied with a sniff. He took his seat and smoothed his white hair back from his forehead.

"No, he wasn't." Gunheim poured the last of the beer into her glass. "The only person he beats at home is Aracelli," she said, gesturing to Solórzano, "And she sucks, too."

Solórzano scowled at the other girl before her expression softened. "Oh, who am I kidding? I can't even pretend to be offended because she's right."

Their laughter was interrupted by the server, who had sidled up to Zhelen with a seductive smile. "So love, what can I get for you?"

The next several minutes were a blur as food and drink orders were given, and Martin basked in the mostly female company he found himself in. He took a small sip from his glass, feeling settled and at home for the first time all night. Angela watched him from the other side of the table, and Martin leaned in towards her, his smile brightening. "What?"

"You just seem really happy for a guy who just got dumped."

He ignored the dig and nodded. "I am. I'm so glad I caught up to you guys." The brown-haired girl's answering grin was the best thing he had seen all night. "So, tell me what Solórzano was like as an undergrad."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The City -- San Francisco (Not San Fran, not Frisco, god help us. The City. San Francisco is always correct. SF is also acceptable.)
> 
> I almost feel like I should apologize for this not being the direct continuation of the last chapter. But Martin isn't done being Martin yet, and I needed to get him in the right place. The next chapter will be up soon, so the suspense won't last too long.


	14. Chapter 14

“Computer, lights to 40 percent.  Windows to 90 percent opacity.  Increase temperature to 30 degrees Celsius.  Engage soundproofing.”

The flat’s computer made the requested adjustments to the environmental settings in her bedroom, and Nyota glanced over at Spock even as the lights dimmed.  He stood between the chest of drawers and the bed, looking around the room with undisguised interest. 

Not that there was much to see.  Even though she’d lived there since the beginning of the academic year, Nyota hadn’t made much of an effort to personalize the space.  Except for the holos of her family and friends back home that barely left any free space on the top of the chest of drawers and the soft, green blanket her mother had given her before she came up to Oxford for her first year that lay neatly folded at the end of the bed.  And the stacks of PADDS crammed into the top shelf of the small bookcase next to her desk.  Other than that, she’d left the room exactly the way it had been when she’d moved in.  Sophie had encouraged her to make any changes she wanted, but she hadn’t seen the point when she spent most of her time in the library or in lectures or classes or tutorials. 

Anyone could see the only place in the room she really lived was her desk, a battered antique writing table with a much-scarred top she’d dragged home from a flea market the weekend after she’d moved in.  Which Spock was now staring at.

“You are studying Romulan?”  His gaze had landed on the pinboard tacked up on the wall behind the dock for her primary PADD.  It was covered in hand-written notes and computer printouts from the language project she’d been working on for nearly the past four years.

“Yeah.  In my spare time.”  She walked over to her desk and looked down at the uncharacteristic chaos scattered across the surface.  A half dozen PADDs, her keyboard, a stack of synthetic paper notepads she sometimes had to have next to a handful ink pens and graphite pencils.  And data sticks.  So many data sticks that were usually in their case in neat rows, categorized by subject, but that were currently laying in an unruly jumble.  She vaguely recalled dumping the entire box out a couple of days before, searching for a specific transmission recording, and with the start of the Invitational, she hadn’t had time to put them away.

She half-expected Spock to ask her more about the project and wished she’d made some effort to clean up.  She hoped he didn’t ask.  To her eyes, her most recent attempts to improve her understanding of the syntax of interrogative sentences looked pitifully blank. 

Or maybe she hoped he _would_ ask about the project.  She’d never met anyone who had more than the barest familiarity with Romulan, and certainly not someone who could recognize the language from only phonetic notation.  And it made her a little less self-conscious about having dragged him back to her bedroom pretty much the minute they’d gotten to her flat, no matter how agreeable he’d been once she’d convinced him she didn’t need to eat right away.  But he didn’t ask, and the silence in the now almost too-warm room weighed on her as much as the heat.

She barely felt him pull her hair to one side and slide his hand up her arm.  It was nearly lost in the way her mind was churning and the wash of heat across the bare skin of her back when Spock stepped close.  The press of his mouth on her neck was the faintest ghost of a kiss, all velvet softness and warm breath.  It raised the little hairs across her neck and shoulders and shivered down her spine, following the same path of his hand as it drifted from where it played in the ends of her hair and down her back.  His fingertips were callused and rough, probably from countless hours of playing a stringed instrument.  They grazed her skin and left a trail of prickling gooseflesh in their wake, and she found it more and more difficult to keep from shying away from his touch.

He paused at the cord that held her shirt together, and her heart pounded hard and heavy when she felt him tug at the flimsy knot.  She’d expected this to be harder.  To go slower.  Like how they’d been on the walk home, always just missing and then having to go back, recollect, and start again.  Not that she needed more time.  She wanted him.  Even if she couldn’t explain how it had happened so quickly.  Ever since she’d been knocked into him, he’d been a constant, nagging itch.  Just out of reach, and the longer she spent with him, the more unrelenting it became.  Still, a little more information would have been helpful.

“Spock?”  The tie at the small of her back came loose all at once, and the ridiculous scrap of silk Sophie had talked her into wearing came open and slipped off her shoulders.  Almost without thought, she clutched the slippery fabric to her chest before it could fall.  “Is there anything I should know?  Anything that’s different?”

There was a sudden coolness at her back, and his voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet and uncertain.  “My mother is human.”

“What?”

She still had her back to him, so she couldn’t see his face, but she could hear him swallow before he continued.  “Although I am physiologically Vulcan, genetically, I am half human.”

Nyota turned around.  The piece of silk in her hand fluttered to the floor, temporarily forgotten, and Spock’s eyes drifted downwards as well.   Apparently, Vulcan males were as fascinated with breasts as human ones.  Or at least half-Vulcan, half-human ones were.  Then his gaze snapped back up to her face, like he’d just realized he’d been staring at her…well, her breasts.  Which he had.  She would have laughed if the circumstances had been different.

Unbidden, a half-remembered conversation from her childhood floated up to the conscious part of her brain.  Tamor, her _T’Kahr_ ’s younger son, had been a huge fan of the Vulcan ambassador to Earth.  Idolized him, really.  Of course, he’d denied it, but he was all but obsessed with the man, constantly chattering about this negotiation or that state dinner.  What he said, what he ate.  Even what he wore.  All very logically justified as preparation for his future career in diplomacy. 

Tamor had once spent the entire weekend practicing his arguments for wanting to adopt the more traditional hairstyle worn by the Ambassador rather than the longer length his father and older brother favored, and the only thing that had gotten her through it was that she’d made him tell her the whole thing in Vulcan.  Regari, not standard.

He’d been particularly interested in the Ambassador’s choice of a human wife, a woman from the northwestern part of the United States, and their son, who was only a few years older than Nyota had been at the time.  The memories turned like tumblers of an old fashioned lock clicking into place and opening a door.

“You’re the Ambassador’s son.”  She didn’t need to see the way Spock’s eyes jerked upwards from where they’d again gravitated to her breasts or his tight nod to tell her she was right.  “How is that not public knowledge?”

“My parents are much in the public eye as a consequence of my father’s work, but they made every effort during my childhood to shield me from public scrutiny.  When I chose to enlist in Starfleet, it was logical to continue to limit the media’s access so as not to interfere with my training and studies.”  He hesitated, and his voice grew soft.  “Is this problematic?”

“No,” she answered without thinking and then stopped.  Was it a problem? 

One of the things that had frustrated Tamor in his relentless quest to know everything about the Ambassador’s family was the near complete lack of information about his half-human son, whom he considered one of his peers.  Spock.  Which was understandable.  Intergalactic media regulations severely curtailed the movement of the press when it came to minors and those who chose to keep their lives private.

The child of a diplomat, no matter how well known, wasn’t a public figure, either by circumstance or by registration.   It wasn’t hard for an ordinary person to become a public spectacle if they wanted.  Plenty of people were interested in the attention that a public life and a well-run publicity campaign could bring.  It was as simple as registering as a public figure and hiring the right publicist. 

But in Spock’s case, it was more complicated.  Not only was he the son of the chief diplomat of Vulcan’s delegation to Earth, he was half-human and the first member of his species to join Starfleet instead of serving in some unofficial capacity.  Usually “observer” or some other meaningless position.

Nyota couldn’t begin to imagine how the Federation, or Starfleet, or the Vulcan government itself, had managed to kill a story that big.  It was the sort of thing that that the less-than-legitimate media outlets would be willing to risk just about any legal or professional consequences to be the first to report.  Fines, ethical sanctions from the United Earth Intergalactic Press Association, license suspension.  Imprisonment.  It practically begged to be leaked.

But they did do it.  Probably over and over again.  Spock had to have known the likelihood that she’d put the pieces together when he told her about his…humanity.  He’d probably calculated it to at least five decimals.  He was clearly trusting her with the information, although she couldn’t imagine why he’d said anything.  His health cert identified him as Vulcan, both physically and culturally.  He hadn’t needed to tell her.  Except that she had asked if there was anything she needed to know.  He clearly thought it was something she did.

Was it a problem?  Did it matter?  Even with the lights dimmed, she could see that his features were composed, like they’d almost always been since they’d met, but in a way that was tense and guarded. 

Was it a problem?  She stepped forward and started unsealing his jacket.  “You’re wearing too many clothes.  And while that’s good to know, that’s not what I was asking.”

“I apologize.”

Nyota stretched up to kiss him and pushed the jacket off his shoulders and down his arms where it dropped into an unceremonious heap at his feet.  She tugged at the bottom of his sweater, and Spock pulled away and stripped it and the long-sleeved, black undershirt he wore off over his head.  They joined his jacket on the floor.

Not so different from a human, she thought.  She reached out and riffled through the coarse, wiry hair sprinkled across his chest and that trailed down to his navel where it disappeared under his belt.  Similar anatomy and muscular structure. 

His skin was pale, something she had problems reconciling with the idea of someone who had grown up on a desert planet with a thin atmosphere, and the dark hair that covered his arms and chest stood out in stark relief.  There was nothing soft or extraneous about him.  He was all hard lines and angles, and the muscles under her hands were taut and solid.  His abdomen twitched when she hooked her fingers into the waistband of his trousers and pulled him closer to her again.

“The mechanics of Vulcan sexuality are not appreciably different from that of humans.”  His voice was tight and strangled, and she looked up.  His eyes were dark under heavy lids, but there was something in them that seemed to burn. 

“Okay.” 

And then he was kissing her again, his lips on her mouth, her face, trailing down her throat.  His hands were light and quick and teasing on her body, only slowing when they traced over her breasts.  By the time he unfastened her jeans, she was panting and breathless, and she was very nearly dizzy again.  He had them halfway down her legs when he froze.

“What’s wrong?” 

“You are still wearing your boots.”

“Oh.”  Was that all?  Nyota bent to take them off, but with her jeans down around her thighs, she overbalanced and had to grab him to keep from toppling over.  Spock steadied her, and she thought she saw the corners of his lips twitch.  “What?”

He said nothing, but once she righted herself, he knelt down and lifted her foot and removed one boot and then did the same with the other.  Her jeans and then her socks quickly joined the growing pile of clothing next to her chest of drawers.  When he glanced up at her, he was smirking.  Definitely smirking.  She was about to say something she was sure would have been witty and brilliant, but whatever it was dried up and blew away at the slide of his hands up her legs, and his fingers hooked into the tiny little excuse for knickers she wore and peeled those down to the floor as well. 

In the same situation, Charlie would have waited for her to pull up her jeans and take her boots off herself.  But Spock wasn’t Charlie.  It was a mantra she kept repeating to herself because it lit her up inside like the stars she was named after, and he’d barely gotten to his feet before her arms were around his neck, her body sliding against his and sending him staggering back a step.  He was too tall now that she didn’t have any shoes on, and she had to half raise up on her toes and half pull him down so that she could kiss him. And kiss him again.  And again until his hands were on her, burning against her skin and coaxing her closer and closer.  And he was still wearing half his clothes which wasn’t fair at all.

Her fingers skimmed down  his chest and over his waistband to wrap around the hard length of him, blazingly hot even through the fabric of his trousers, and his mouth moved over hers again, rougher than before and with a need that made her breath come short.  She suddenly couldn’t get close enough to him, and she hurried to undo his belt and undo his trousers even as her mind whispered the Vulcan names for every part of her he touched:  her neck (drahk), her shoulders ( _tipan_ ), her breasts ( _thasek_ ), her hips ( _[abru-mal](http://www.starbase-10.de/vld/main.php?cmd=details&id=3786)_ ).  The curve of her back ( _plat_ ).

His belt came undone easily enough.  His waistband, however, wasn’t as cooperative.  But she’d only struggled with the closure for a few seconds when Spock’s long, neat fingers circled her wrists held her hands still.

“Nyota—”

“I’m perfectly capable of getting a man out of his clothes.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.”  As he spoke, he loosened her grip on the front of his trousers.  “But it would perhaps be more efficient if you would allow me.”

Nyota exhaled, sharp and heavy, and glared up at him.  There it was again, that upwards tick of his lips and the crinkling at the corner of his eyes.  She pulled her hands out of his grasp and took a few steps back to give him some room, ignoring the flush of heat that burned across her cheeks and down her neck.  Trying to ignore him removing his own short boots and the rest of his clothing and leaving everything on the floor with the rest of his uniform, too. 

Or at least trying not to stare. 

Abjectly failing at trying not to stare.  After all, she’d never seen a naked Vulcan before, male or female.  Curiosity was only normal.

Okay, she was staring, but she didn’t seem to be able not to.  Spock had the lanky, slender build common to Vulcan males, his shoulders and back straight and smooth.  Not bulky, his waist and hips similarly slim.  Which made the overt muscularity of his legs all the more surprising.  And not that she’d doubted him, but from the look of things, the mechanics of human and Vulcan sexuality were definitely similar at the very least. 

She couldn’t think what, if anything, might have been different because Spock’s fingers brushed against her cheek and drove the thought from her mind as if it had never occurred.  His hand sunk into her hair and settled against the back of her neck, a warm, soothing weight at the base of her skull.  He turned her face upwards and kissed her with a precision that sent a jolt of longing through her and buckled her knees.  For a split second, she was afraid he was going to insist again that she eat. 

And he did pull away.  The  look he leveled at her was no less accusatory for its inherent calm.  It was strange and off-putting to have someone she just met be so persistent in trying to take care of her, more so because she suspected that if he were to push her on it, she’d agree just to avoid further conflict.  

Before he could say anything, Nyota grabbed his other hand and moved towards the bed until the backs of her thighs bumped into the mattress, and she lowered herself to perch on the edge in front of him.   Sitting on the bed, her feet didn’t quite reach the ground, and she had to prop them on the bed rail.  She hoped that would be enough to distract him from fussing at her. 

It wasn’t.  At least not at first. 

“Nyota –” 

But when she pulled him into the space between her knees, his voice choked off, what he had been going to say evaporating into the warm air.  She hadn’t really noticed the temperature in the room since her clothes had been discarded, but she could feel her skin growing tacky with the heat and his proximity.

“What?” 

His expression was unreadable, and he was so close, she couldn’t use his body language to puzzle it out.  Besides, having him naked and positioned so intimately, standing between her thighs, she kept getting distracted.  By one thing in particular.  Something in her brain must have melted because she couldn’t remember the Vulcan name for…that part of his body.  She knew a hundred different words for it, and she didn’t like any of them, so she usually avoided calling it anything. 

He was quiet and so still for a long time.  When she glanced up, he was watching her, waiting.  

“Spock?”  Her hand moved over the hard jut of his hip bone and down to his thigh.  That seemed to be the signal he needed because he reached out and teased his fingers along her jaw and down her neck to her breast.  When he drew his thumb over her nipple, the rough texture of the musician’s callus there caught and rubbed against her skin, and she gasped and arched into his palm.  His eyes narrowed, and he squeezed her breast and gently rolled the sensitive nub between his fingers, seemingly enthralled at the way her flesh tightened and pebbled under his hand.

His other hand closed around her leg, and she drew her lower lip in between her teeth to keep from whimpering when he leaned in closer and spread her apart just a little wider.  He traced over her hip to the inside of her thigh, and Nyota held her breath.  A single bead of sweat trickled down between her breasts. 

When his hand moved between her legs, hot and slick, she clutched at the mattress, anchoring herself.  It felt like she teetered on the edge of something gigantic.  All she needed was the tiniest push, and she’d tumble over. 

Spock’s fingers strummed over her, and her breathing became uneven and ragged.  He liked the small, helpless noises she made as she rocked against his hand, matching his rhythm.  Liked that he was the reason she was making them.  She was certain, although she wasn’t sure how she knew.  And she knew how ready he was to be inside her, and how reluctant he was to replace his hand with that…that part of him before she…oh.  And how close he was to breaking.  And how far away she still was.

She was always slow at first, building and building until she didn’t know where the peak was.  And then the world would drop away, and she’d plummet before she even knew what was happening.   It was something Charlie had complained about regularly, although he’d certainly had a knack for coaxing her over the edge.  It had really been the only part of their relationship that had worked.

Her head snapped back as something low in her belly clenched and continued to build, and the sound that escaped her was halfway between whimper and a sob.  Spock’s fingers stuttered against her, inside her, even as she curled one leg around his hip and tried to draw him in closer.  He was hot and so hard where he was pressed into her thigh.  She would have reached for him then if she hadn’t been so sure she’d lose her balance.  God, why didn’t he just…

And there it was again, that no-longer-so-steely determination to rein in his own need until she was…done.  

Gasping, Nyota grasped his wrist.  “Stop...please…just for a minute.”  Slowly, he withdrew his hand, and she pushed herself back on the bed to put some room between them.  She was never going to come if he kept holding himself back.  She kept getting distracted by it.  And he was going to have an aneurysm if they kept going the way they were.

He stood pressed against the edge of the mattress, poised as if he were about to pursue her or pull her back.  His fingers were clenched into the duvet so tightly that the lean muscles of his arms fairly vibrated.  She could almost hear the bed frame groan from the pressure of his hands. 

Spock closed his eyes, and breathed, visibly trying to calm himself and not succeeding.  Nyota watched him, fascinated.  All that resolve.  All that hunger pent up inside.  All that stubbornness, and for what?  His hands had been everywhere.  On her.  Inside her.  She could feel how wet she was.  She was more than ready.  He couldn’t not know that.  And still, he was holding back.

Nyota crawled back over to him and rose up onto her knees.  They were almost the same height with her kneeling in front of him on the mattress.  If anything, she was a little taller, and remembering how much Spock seemed to enjoy looming over her, she smiled. 

Even though his eyes were still squeezed shut and she hadn’t touched him yet, there was no way he didn’t know she was right next to him.  She stayed there for a few long seconds and studied him. 

His mouth never seemed to relax.  Did he know that the slight tension that always seemed to be there accentuated the bow in his top lip and made the way the corners curved upwards more pronounced?  Would he care?  It was what made her first want to kiss him.  If he knew that, would he care then?  The little upside-down v-shaped furrow between his brows grew deeper and deeper as he waited for her, his eyes still closed, and when Nyota leaned forward and kissed him, the creases in his forehead faded.  She’d bet he’d care.

She slipped her hand against his side to steady herself and reached between them to where he was pressed hard and heavy against her belly.  If she’d thought the rest of him was burning hot to the touch, that was nothing compared to the pulsing heat against her palm.  Spock’s breath shivered against her lips as she began to stroke him, lightly at first, but when his mouth grew rough and needful, her fingers tightened.

“Nyota, stop,”  he pleaded, echoing her earlier words.  His voice was harsh and unsteady.  It was probably as close to begging as he could get.  “Please.”

But she only pressed in closer, her hand still around him.  “Why?” she whispered.

He covered her hand with his, and his breath rasped against her cheek.  “I wish…”  He swallowed, stopped her movements, and gently disengaged her fingers.  “You have not –”

She pulled out of his grasp and took his face between her hands.  “It’s okay.  I’m ready.”  Nyota kissed him again, scattered them across his cheek and down his neck.  “I’m so ready.” 

She reached the base of his throat and pressed her lips into the hollow in the middle of his collarbone.  Spock’s hands convulsed, gripping her hips and buttocks hard enough to bruise,  grinding her into him.  And the sound he made.  A half-strangled groan breathed into her ear that blew through her and made her body tighten.  With expectation?  With need?  She didn’t care.  She only knew she had to hear him make that sound again and kissed that place on his throat that had pulled it from him the first time, nipping at him with her teeth.  

How she ended up on her back in the middle of her bed was a blur.  When she’d bitten him, he’d clutched her to him even more tightly.  And then the room had spun, and she was looking up at the ceiling above her bed, Spock hovering between her thighs, hands on either side of her head, just out of reach.

She stretched to kiss him and arched up to where he was pressed into her.  His hips surged forward, and she gasped against his mouth at the sudden heat of him inside her.  With a growl that started deep in his throat, he began to move. 

Her hands skimmed down his chest to his waist, and her leg wrapped around his, her foot nestling into the crook between his knee and calf.   Her breath escaped in sharp gasps and sighs, driven by his movements, by the heat of him, by the way that every thrust teased her.  His head dropped to her shoulder, and his rhythm quickened and grew erratic and unsteady.  Clutching at his back and hips, Nyota rocked up against him and urged him to stroke into her with more force.

Spock was silent when he climaxed, his mouth open against her neck, muffling any sound he might have made.  But his hips jerked, and she could feel him drive himself deeper, and he pulsed inside her.  His movements slowed and then stopped.  He was heavy.  Heavier than she’d expected.

His breathing was harsh, and he gulped in great lungsful of air.  But he recovered quickly because Nyota was still catching her breath when he started to pepper her neck and shoulder with slow, lazy kisses.  In that moment, it wasn’t important that she hadn’t…well, hadn’t.  He’d wanted her, and it had been so palpable and so staggering a thing, she felt like she’d shattered anyway. 

“Thank you.”  His words were a murmur against her neck, and Spock pushed himself up onto his elbows.

Nyota smiled.  “You’re welcome.”

 “I apologize for not being more attentive to your needs.”  He dropped his forehead to hers and then rolled to one side.  “I would appreciate the opportunity to improve on my performance.”

All she could manage was a weak laugh.  “Is that your way of telling me you’d like to do this again?”

“Yes.  If you are amenable.  And after a necessary refractory period.”

She laughed again, stronger this time and maybe more of a giggle.  “Okay.  How long is that?”

“Four minutes and thirty-two seconds.” 

“Oh.” 

“I maintain that you say that word with some frequency.”

“I do not.”

“You have used that –”

“Shhhh.”  Nyota turned onto her side and shifted closer.  She pressed her fingers against his lips.  “Stop talking.” 

Spock’s mouth had finally fully relaxed and curved into a gentle smile.  Barely there, but a real smile and not just the upwards lilt at the corners she’d caught glimpses of before.  She traced along the bow of his top lip and then leaned over and kissed him, slow and soft and deep, until his arm wrapped around her waist and his hand twisted into her hair and she felt herself turning, pressed back into her bed under the weight of his body.  His mouth traveled from her cheek to her neck to her shoulder and down to nuzzle at her collarbone.

“What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer, just trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses between her breasts.

“Spock?”  She lifted up onto her elbows, and her heart pounded at how his dark eyes glinted up at her.

“You instructed me to stop talking,” he murmured against her sternum.  “I am merely complying with your wishes.”

The only thing Nyota could do was laugh at his earnest tone, even as he worked his way down her body and slid between her legs.  His mouth was gentle against the inside of her thigh, and then it wasn’t, sucking and biting at the skin there until she squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled sharply though clenched teeth, and suddenly, it wasn’t funny at all.  He kissed her thigh again and then he shifted one of her knees over his shoulder and gripped her leg, not giving her the chance to move away.  Slowly, deftly, he spread her open, and then it was only his lips and teeth and tongue and hands; the feel of his hair clenched between her fingers and the mattress against her back as she arched into him again and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to any new readers! It's great to have you here! I'm feeling a little guilty over having to put up the previous chapter before getting on with business, so I figured I'd better put this up fast.
> 
> I hope this lived up to the expectations, especially after the fake out from a couple of days ago.


	15. Chapter 15

If someone had asked her even five minutes before, Nyota would have quite honestly been able to say she'd never imagined a naked Vulcan in her kitchen. But now, with her cheek pressed against the solid cool of the closed bathroom door listening to the soft but unmistakable sounds of Spock unloading the stasis containers from the bags she'd left on the counter, she was finding it difficult to think of anything else.

She couldn't quite wrap her mind around it. Was unable to fully appreciate the idea, it was so far outside her past experience, and she didn't want to think how far out of her depth she might be. She'd left him sitting on the edge of her bed. Unclothed, the same way she'd been before she'd tugged on her dressing gown and slipped out of her bedroom to the loo.

She'd only just eased the door closed behind her and sagged back against it. She couldn't have spent more than a minute breathing and trying to keep from grinning like a fool before she'd heard the door to her room open and shut again and a pair of bare feet head purposefully down the hall and into the kitchen.

Not more than a minute, she was certain. Two minutes, at most. Or five? There hadn't been enough time for him to dress. Had there? She debated whether or not to sneak back down the hall, poke her head around the corner, and check but decided there wasn't anything she could do about it if she did. It was early enough that they should still have at least two hours of privacy, maybe three. But not more, especially if Sophie found someone she wanted to bring home. There really wasn't any good reason why there couldn't be a naked Vulcan in her kitchen, at least for a little while.

As she listened, Spock began to rummage through the cupboards, probably looking for plates, Nyota used the toilet and checked her reflection in the mirror over the sink as she washed her hands. Her lips were a little swollen and there was a faint shadow where her neck met her shoulder. She pulled the edge of her dressing gown to the side and leaned in to get a better look.

There was definitely a mark. It was just the right size and shape to have been left by someone's mouth, and it had to be one hell of a love bite for it to be showing so soon. She vaguely remembered feeling Spock's teeth at the juncture of her shoulder at some point, but she hadn't thought he'd been rough enough to leave that kind of mark.

Her hair was tangled and fell over her shoulders in an unruly cloud. Her eyeliner was starting to smudge at the corners. And her forehead and cheeks shone with a thin layer of sweat that clung to her skin from the increased heat in her room or maybe from what she'd been doing in that heat. Nyota ran a flannel under the tap. The water was cold and splashed over her fingers and wrists, and she could feel her body temperature drop. Squeezing out the last of the water, she pressed the damp cloth against her face and wiped away the dark smears around her eyes. She was a bit of a mess, but a good mess. No, she thought, grinning at her reflection, a great, wonderful, happy mess.

Their first time had been over in a blinding flash, and her brain still buzzed at the overwhelming need that had flooded Spock when she’d kissed the hollow of his throat, and how he'd shaken with the effort it had taken to hold himself back until she'd found that little spot that was so exquisitely sensitive and forced the issue. It hadn't been the best sex she'd ever had, and that had been her fault for pushing him, but it had been some of the most honest.

The second time had been less hurried, but no less desperate in the end. When her first climax had come crashing down, his mouth and tongue tight against her and his fingers strumming at a bundle of nerves up inside her that she hadn't known was there, and she'd almost sobbed in relief. She'd reached down and tugged at his arm, trembling and clumsy, and they started again from the beginning until he was as breathless as she was.

Anything to keep from thinking about how she'd twined her fingers into his hair or arched into his mouth or gnawed at her own lip to keep from whimpering. Or the impossibly hot flush that flooded her face and throat at the not quite restrained way he'd dragged the back of his hand across his mouth before he moved over her again. He'd finally pushed inside her with a heavy breath against her cheek that was more a strangled gasp than a groan, and she came with her hands clenching into his hips ( _gaf_ ) and his back ( _plat_ ), driving him harder ( _lerashek_ ), faster ( _sahrek_ ), deeper ( _glu-ek_ ), her mouth pressed to his shoulder in a fruitless effort to muffle her cries. She was ridiculously grateful for the flat's soundproofing capabilities.

And after. After his breathing slowed. After he’d pulled away from her. After he’d pressed soft kisses to her fingertips and her palm and her knuckles. After everything, he'd touched her again, and even though his hands were soft and intimate and familiar with her body in a way that was shocking after so short a time, there was nothing sexual about the way his hands skimmed over her. He just seemed to want…no, need…to touch her.

And for her to touch him, if the way he pulled her hands back to him over and over again was anything to judge by. His body had been tense at first. Too tense given the violence of his own orgasm. But as she'd caressed him, he'd lost that coiled rigidity and finally, fully relaxed. She'd traced the outline of his mouth with her fingertips, her lips following in their wake, and he'd pulled her down and kissed her again.

And then her traitorous stomach had rumbled.

Spock had gently pushed her away and fixed her with a stern glare that couldn't have said "I told you so" any more clearly and insisted that they finally eat. Nyota had briefly considered arguing the point with him, but then he'd again asserted his willingness to talk over dinner, like he knew she was preparing to be stubborn. That, combined with the fact that she  _was_  hungry, convinced her otherwise.

She'd excused herself and pulled on her dressing gown before she'd slipped down the hallway to the toilet. And now she stood in front of the vanity, staring at her own slightly smug expression in the mirror over the sink, raking her fingers through the ends of her hair to get out the worst of the snarls so that she could have dinner with the guy she'd brought home and already had sex with – twice.  Who was, possibly, still naked. Nyota checked the mirror one last time, pulled her gown more firmly closed, and tightened the knot of the belt around her waist. She pressed her hand against her middle to try and still the little jump in her stomach when she thought of what might be waiting for her and pushed open the door.

When she reached the small dining area just off the kitchen, she saw that Spock was mostly dressed despite her earlier concerns, wearing his red trousers and long-sleeved, fitted black shirt and only his feet were still bare. The flutter behind her diaphragm faded until it was nothing more than a feeble twinge. It was silly, but a naked boy in her kitchen was always going to be more interesting than a dressed one, wasn't he?

No, not more interesting, she corrected herself. More awkward. Definitely more awkward, so it was a good thing that she'd taken longer than she'd realized and given him time to find his clothes. Besides, what would she have done if he had been naked? Taken off her dressing gown and eaten dinner with him starkers?

"I took the liberty of setting out our meal." Spock was opening the last of the stasis containers, and after he set it down on the table, he made a minute adjustment to the box so that it lined up perfectly with the ones on either side. "I hope you do not object."

Nyota glanced over at closed cupboard doors and then back at the tabletop. While she'd been in the loo, he'd rooted out plates and cutlery in the efficient little kitchen she shared with Sophie and set two places on either side of the too large dining table and arranged the takeaway boxes in neat lines between them.

The way he'd arranged things was simple and straightforward and utterly logical. Other than the food and the eating utensils and a small pile of thick paper napkins from the restaurant, the table was bare, and the lights in the dining area were at full illumination.

Nyota smiled.

Someone else might have tried to make eating into some stereotypically romantic cliché: eating with their hands, feeding one another, maybe leaving the main lights off altogether and activating the far-too-dim artificial candles that floated in a localized anti-grav field over the table in place of a chandelier, adding a level of awkwardness to that already inherent when having sex with someone for the first time. Thankfully, that was clearly not what was happening.

"You did this without me."

"As most food preparation areas are organized along similar principles, it was not difficult to surmise the location of the necessary items." He made a final adjustment to the fork closest to him and then straightened and became still. So aggressively fixed in place, he almost seemed to vibrate. "If I have overstepped – "

"No, it's fine." It had probably only taken him a scant second to decide that setting the table while he waited for her was the logical course of action rather than waiting alone in her bedroom or standing around in the living room or kitchen. She shook her head and moved to the refrigeration unit. "Is water okay?" she asked over her shoulder, opening the door.

"It is preferable."

She pulled the refillable bottle of chilled water out of the fridge and grabbed two glasses from the cupboard. She brought them over to the table and sat down. Only once she was seated, did Spock join her, and she leaned towards him. "Thank you."

She reached for a box of wide rice noodles and tipped a portion of them onto her plate. Spock was spooning out a cold salad of forest mushrooms, something Nyota had never ordered before. After he placed the container back on the table, she picked it up and smelled its contents before taking some, liking the delicate combination of soy, lemongrass, and mint against the earthiness of the mushrooms.

As they occupied themselves with filling their plates, the silence was only disturbed by the shuffling of the food containers and the occasional clink of the cutlery. It had a peaceful gravity that reminded her of the steady, quiet of meals she'd shared with Torval and his family, and Nyota smiled to herself as she twisted noodles around the tines of her fork, careful to keep them clear of a rich, yellow curry sauce that was slowly escaping its bed of rice. She'd never quite adjusted to the stillness that was typical of Vulcan meals, not even after three years spent as a regular addition at her teacher's table, squeezed in between his sons and struggling to use her best table manners and not chatter on endlessly the way she'd been prone to as a child.

Spock was maneuvering long slices of grilled eggplant onto the plate in front of him, not spilling any of the thick sauce that coated them. Shifting a piece of mushroom back and forth, Nyota watched him prod the container and the one next to it, the one she'd just set down, back into the neat line he'd originally placed them in.

He didn't look at her, and he didn't say anything. She speared the mushroom she'd been playing with, popped it in her mouth, and slowly chewed as Spock neatly cut into a slice of eggplant before beginning to eat. He'd said he was used to talking over meals, but he hadn't said a word since sitting down at the table. Given that his mother was human, mealtime conversation had to have been an everyday occurrence unless she'd embraced a fully Vulcan lifestyle, but from the way he focused on the contents of the plate in front of him, you wouldn't know it.

"What do you think of the food?" Nyota asked.

"Palatable." He watched her push the small pile of mushrooms around on her plate, and an almost imperceptible frown tightened his lips. He set down his fork and moved a small, covered container towards her. "If you are finding my selections too bland to suit your taste."

She removed the lid and released a deep, savory, sharp aroma. "Chili paste?"

"Your willingness to accede to my preferences in selecting our meal was appreciated."

Nyota shrugged and mixed some of the paste into the mushroom salad and set the container next to her plate. "You can always add heat, but you can't take it away. I've asked them for condiments before, but they've always said no. Something about how the food was already prepared how it was meant to be eaten."

"The manager was most accommodating when I requested it." His tone was mild, almost to the point of innocence, and his expression remained impassive, but his eyes crinkled at the corners, and there was a glint there that she couldn't quite place.

The manager of the restaurant they'd stopped at frequently oversaw the front desk, and she'd always seemed nice enough. But she tended to, well, fawn over any vaguely attractive male who walked in. The manager hadn't been in the reception area when Nyota had led Spock in through the narrow front door, but by the time they'd finished negotiating their order, she'd appeared, sending the indifferent teenager who'd been manning the desk off with a distracted wave of her hand to show a party of four to their table, and waited on them herself. Or more accurately, waited on Spock because Nyota was pretty sure her presence hadn't registered. At all.

As the manager had tapped their order into the desk PADD and transmitted it to the kitchen, she'd undone the top buttons of her blouse until the lace edge of her bra had peeked out of the collar, her motions slow and seemingly unconscious. Nyota had had to focus her attention out the window and count the number of vehicles that whizzed along the road just to keep from giggling, not only at the manager's shameless attempts to get Spock's attention but at how oblivious he had been to her flirtations. He'd probably made the request for the chili paste while she'd been trying tune out what had been going on behind her.

"I'll bet she was," she said, bending over her plate to hide her smile and tried the salad again. The addition of the chili paste rounded out the flavors and she took another bite. The chilies made the inside of her mouth tingle, and there was a slight brininess that she hadn't noticed before that crackled against the tip of her tongue. "This is really good. Thank you."

He nodded and fell quiet again, watching her while she ate. Nyota tried to ignore the way he stared, tried to focus on her meal, but she could feel his eyes trace along her cheek and lips and down to her fingers. She glanced up, her fork hovering halfway between her mouth and her plate. Spock's gaze darted from her face down to the container and back up, and one corner of his mouth curled upwards.

"I'm sorry." Nyota set her fork down on her plate. The heat that crept across her cheeks had nothing to do with the chili still lingering on her palette. "Do you want some?" She pushed the container part-way across the table, and Spock eyed the glowing, red slick of oil that coated the maroon paste and then looked at her.

"I do not." He turned his attention back to the food on his plate and busied himself with carving off and eating a piece of eggplant. "Thai chili paste is traditionally made with ground shrimp," he said, once he'd swallowed.

"I didn't know." Nyota curled her fingers around the small cup and pulled it back next to her plate.

"Do not concern yourself."

Again, the charged, strained silence that had hallmarked so many of their conversations since they'd found themselves alone together outside the bar threatened to drop down over them, and Nyota sighed, exhaling sharply, and gripped her fork even though she suddenly wasn't very hungry anymore so that she wouldn't start tapping her fingers against the tabletop. She'd thought, hoped – foolishly, as it turned out – that once they'd been physically intimate, this part would be easier, that she'd feel less self-conscious, not more. How could they still not manage to talk to one another for more than a minute without her feeling like she'd made some sort of blunder?

She jabbed at a piece of carrot she didn't have any more interest in eating and dragged the offending vegetable through a smear of bright yellow curry sauce, determined to come up with something to talk about, but her mind was alarmingly empty, devoid of all the things she knew she wanted to ask him.

"Your study of Romulan, when did you begin?" Spock's voice cut through the quiet, and Nyota felt the knot in her stomach slowly begin to unwind.

"I've been working on and off since I was 15," she replied after a beat, so grateful that, for a second, she couldn't find her voice. "You don't know any of the dialects, do you?" She looked at him expectantly, the carrot still impaled on her fork, forgotten.

"I am familiar with Low Rihan."

"The dialect of the military."

"Correct. Although I am by no means proficient."

Nyota pressed her lips together and looked away so that Spock wouldn't see her smile fade. "No one ever is, even after nearly a hundred years of contact and a war."

"It is not a common area of study outside of Starfleet or Federation service. Even within Starfleet, understanding of the language is incomplete."

"Really? So there isn't some classified Starfleet language database?"

Spock paused in reaching for a container of stir fried rice noodles with eggs, tofu, and raw banana flowers, and he met her eyes for a long moment, unblinking. Nyota sucked in a deep breath, his look almost as clear a confirmation that such a resource did exist as words would have been, but as he piled the red-hued noodles on his plate, his expression closed off and forestalled further discussion on the subject.

"Tell me about your work," he requested. The change in subject was minor, but he clearly intended to redirect their conversation away from the potential existence of a classified Romulan language database. That there was one, Nyota had no doubt; it was logical that the Federation would withhold sensitive information from the general public. And even though she would have traded her favorite pair of earrings to spend five minutes grilling Spock about its contents, she let it drop. After all, there was a good chance she'd have access to it herself in a few more years, and she could be patient. Mostly.

"Well, right now, I'm working on clarifying exceptions to the general rules of word order for interrogative statements containing a present tense imperfective verb with a conditional ending in Low Rihan. It seems like there are more exceptions than rules for word order and that they change with the time of day or what the speaker ate that morning.

"It's misleading how much the language sounds like Vulcan. But the grammar is so randomized in places, it's almost like the confusion was intentional, maybe to distance it from its proto-language."

"While your illustrations tend towards hyperbole, your summation is accurate. No logical system for the application of grammatical exceptions to word order has yet to be identified in that case. This has been a focus for Starfleet linguists for some time with only meager progress due to the demonstrated inconsistency in the application of the language's internal rules of grammar."

"I was listening to one of the civilian-recorded transmissions from just before the battle of Galorndon Core. The one that they think was a sub-space communication between one of the crew of the Romulan vessel that crashed into the planet and his wife?"

"I am familiar with the recording."

"Then you know it has 10 minutes of silence at the end." Nyota paused and watched Spock nod. "I left it playing while I was making some notes, and near the end, I heard something."

"Computer analysis has identified this as an interstellar plasma wave with 87.9 percent certainty."

"The computer's wrong. I haven't heard a lot of subspace noise, but something about it didn't sound random. Naresh, one of my teammates, helped me boost the sound quality. It was someone talking. And even after we cleaned up the audio, filtered out a bunch of the noise, compressed the amplitude, and a lot of other things I don’t really understand, the voice was so quiet, it was barely there." She shifted forward in her seat and set her fork down. Her fingers curled into a fist, and she clenched her hand so tightly that her nails bit into her palm.

"I don't think whoever was talking realized they were still transmitting, and they weren't near the comm, so the man's voice was muffled, or like a whisper. He was chanting, and I think it might have been a children's rhyme, or something similar. Essentially the same question over and over again, but with different noun declensions, changing conditional verb endings, and variations in word order."

"Fascinating." Spock's tone was almost distracted, and Nyota imagined that she could see his thoughts flash lightning quick behind his eyes. "You are using this as a primer."

Nyota grinned. "Exactly. I'm writing an audio data comber to look for other examples of the syntactical patterns in the transmission that use the same noun/verb pairs. I don't really know what I'm looking for, but maybe I'll find something." She trailed off, wishing that she had something more concrete to share with him after four years of work.

"What you have accomplished thus far is impressive."

"Not really. I wouldn't even be looking into this if it weren't for pure dumb luck." She picked up her fork again, intending to finish her meal, but her plate was empty. She didn't even remember eating while she spoke, but based on the evidence before her, she clearly had.

She was about to see if there was more curry when Spock laid his down utensils, his plate still half full. He placed his hands on the table and leaned towards her. "And you would not attribute your advances to your own efforts? Your discovery may not have been intentional, but it appears you have invested significant effort into not only understanding it, but in expanding your current understanding. Knowledge is not achieved passively. It can only be acquired through active pursuit and careful tending."

If the words were familiar to her, it was only because she'd heard them on at least a weekly basis since she was 11, although for the past three years, it had only been her own voice inside her head repeating the words like a mantra.  _Knowledge can only be acquired through active pursuit and careful tending._ To hear them spoken aloud again, and by the man who had left her gasping and shaking less than an hour ago, was so wonderfully unexpected that she had to look away or the smile that was tugging at her lips would bubble over into the kind of girlish giggles that she hated, and had been hearing in her own voice far too much lately.

She focused on the plate in front of her, using her fork to push a few last stray grains of rice around in the remnants of something red that had tasted strongly of tamarind. "My  _T'kahr_  used to say the exact same thing. You know, I only started this because he suggested that a more independent type of study would enrich my understanding of the unit my class was doing in school on the Earth-Romulan War."

" _T'kahr_?"

Nyota's fork froze as she realized what she had said, and her smile faded. She hadn't planned to talk about this tonight. She never really talked about it, not since she'd left home, but the curiosity in Spock's eyes and the tone of his voice was laid so bare, it urged otherwise. She'd opened the door, and she found she didn't want to close it again, but she had no idea what she was going to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T'kahr = Teacher
> 
> I've taken cues from the Star Trek movie novelization with regards to Romulan. For those of you who haven't read it, the book expands on why Uhura was in the transporter room with Kirk and Spock. She was outfitting them with translators she'd modified so that Romulan could be understood conversationally, and she says that they still don't have a full understanding of the syntax which says to me that even if Romulans and Vulcans share common ancestors, they're now far enough removed for the language to have changed significantly, enough that Vulcan couldn't be used as a model. And she also says that she programmed the translators. So, she's going to have some coding skills on top of everything else.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All words in italics are spoke in Vulcan.

“ _T’kahr_?”

Nyota’s mind automatically translated the Vulcan word (teacher), whispering the honorific as if she hadn’t just said it herself.  She realized her slip immediately and lifted her gaze to look at Spock.  He was watching her, intense in his focus, waiting for her to respond.  Wrapping her hand around her glass, Nyota took a long swallow of water, as much to give herself time to think as to ease the sudden dryness in her throat.

She briefly considered ignoring the question but quickly dismissed that as silly.  Spock had heard her speak his language and knew the dialect she’d used wasn’t commonly taught on Earth.  If he hadn’t already inferred she’d learned from a Vulcan native, she would have been surprised.  Besides, her use of _T’kahr_ to refer to her teacher would have made it obvious, if it hadn’t been before. 

And Spock had told her about his mother when he hadn’t needed to.  He’d said it himself; he was physiologically Vulcan.  Nyota had seen that on his health certification.  For that matter, she’d seen _him_ , and neither the cert nor his body gave his humanity away.  No, he didn’t have to tell her, but he had.  And she found she wanted to tell him about Torval. Very much.  Maybe more so because she didn’t talk about him with anyone outside of family, and even then, she tended to avoid it. 

The quiet that had fallen over them stretched out thin and brittle, like the glass in her hand.  Something tangible and solid but still fragile and easily broken.  She could drop it on the floor.  Or throw it against the wall.  Or she could just say something.  She took one final sip of her water and set the glass back down and traced around the rim with her fingers.

When Spock had questioned the way she’d downplayed her work with the Romulan language, he’d leaned into the table, poised and ready to argue with her further until she’d mentioned her teacher.  While he was still angled towards her, that sense of inexorably contained energy receded.  Was softer.  Blunted.  But still there, still immediate, his elbows resting on the table, his eyes sharp and focused, watching her over steepled fingers, waiting patiently for her to answer him.  Or maybe not so patiently waiting to see if she was willing to trust him the way he had trusted her. 

Gently, Nyota gnawed at the inside of her bottom lip and examined her indecision.  She had her reasons for keeping Torval, and the place he held in her life, private, not the least of which was Sophie’s penchant for storing up personal details for later use.  It was her flatmate’s least appealing trait, and Nyota carefully kept anything from her that might cause her to hate the other girl if she ever tried to use it to manipulate her. 

That wouldn’t happen with Spock.  She knew.  And quite frankly, she was tired of being so guarded all the time, especially in what was supposed to be her home, even if the place had never really felt that way.  She swallowed, forcing her heart back into her chest from where it had wedged itself in her throat when she’d realized she’d used the Vulcan title for teacher. 

“I’m sure you’ve figured out that I learned Vulcan from a native speaker.” 

Spock lowered his hands and straightened.  His shoulders pressed lightly against the tall, vertical stiles that formed the back of his chair, and his expression, which had been perfectly, carefully blank, grew even more neutral, if that was even possible.  “Yes, it was the logical conclusion given your use of the Regari dialect, both earlier this evening and two nights ago when you tripped.  I presume your _T’kahr_ was from Vulcana Regar.”

“He was.”  Nyota smiled.   “And I didn’t trip.  I was pushed.” 

“Your recollection of the circumstances of our first meeting is imaginative, if not wholly accurate.” 

Nyota blinked, momentarily silenced by the guilelessness in his tone and his manner.  “I.  Was.  Pushed,” she said finally, emphasizing each word to stress her seriousness because the grin she still wore certainly wasn’t going to do that.

“As you wish.”  Spock’s lips curved upwards.  Not quite a smile but the shadow of one.  “May I inquire as to your reluctance to discuss this earlier?”

Sobering, she leaned forward on her elbows, her fingers still skating aimlessly back and forth along the edge of her water glass.  “Some things are more personal than others.”

“Ah, I understand. We are not sufficiently acquainted.”  His voice was  more dispassionate than it had been at any time since their arrival at the flat.  Without his seeming to have so much as breathed,  Spock’s posture somehow shifted from merely straight and perfect and had become stiff and formal and rigid.  His hands pressed against the edge of the table, and when he started to push his chair back, something in the pit of Nyota’s stomach twisted into a hard knot, and she suddenly felt far to full.

“That’s not it.”  Her words blurred together, almost unintelligible to her own ears in her haste to keep him from rising from the table.  “It’s mostly because of Sophie.  She doesn’t have a lot of respect for boundaries.  There are things we don’t talk about.”

“Such as how you learned to speak Vulcan.” 

“Pretty much anything I don’t bring up first.  It’s important to set limits with her.”

“Would you elaborate?  Please.”  Warmth crept into his voice, and his hands on the table relaxed.

Nyota took a deep breath and held it for a second, picking through her memories of Torval, trying to decide where to start.  Her earliest was watching her mother and father formally welcome him, his wife, T’Pang, and their two sons and into their home.  The family had been their guests until their housing a few streets over, which T’Pang had designed, was completed to her satisfaction.  But that wasn’t her most important memory.  That would be the one of the day she sat at the table in her parents’ dining room, pretending to do her homework while Torval convinced her mother to allow him to instruct her alongside his sons after the end of the school day despite her mother’s endlessly voiced concern that Nyota already studied too much. 

That part of her childhood was only ever something she spoke about with her parents, a part of her family’s history she held close and private, although she’d never examined her reluctance with any critical intent.  But sitting there, figuring out how to talk about him…them…with someone who hadn’t been there, who didn’t know the history, her throat tightened and her breath kept catching at the base of her throat like it couldn’t quite reach her lungs. 

“ _Do you mind if we switch languages?_ ” she asked, easily falling into the calmer, more emotionally restricted tones of Modern Vulcan.

“ _If you would prefer._ ” 

She felt a familiar and immediate calm steal over her with the shift in language that still amazed her no matter how many she learned, the way it could change how she felt and thought.  “ _Very well._ ”  She took a deep breath, held it, let it stretch her lungs and gently spread out her ribs, and then let it go.

“ _My T’kahr’s name was Torval.  His wife and my mother were colleagues.  And friends, I think._ ”

Her brief explanation only made the curious light in Spock’s eyes burn a little brighter.  “ _This was on Earth?_ ”

“ _Yes, in Kitui.  He and his family lived there for three and a half years.  His wife, T’Pang, was an architect, and she took an extended contract on Earth to oversee the construction of a series of large commercial projects she had designed._ ”

As she spoke, Spock settled back in his chair again.  His eyes were fixed firmly on her, unwavering, and her voice trailed off under his scrutiny.  Nyota swallowed once, and then twice to try and ease the tension in her throat.  When she still didn’t speak, Spock inclined his head in her direction.  “ _Please continue.”_

Nyota rubbed her lips together and nodded.  “ _They and their two sons stayed with us for several weeks when they first arrived on planet because their residence was still under construction  They did not get in until very late, and I was asleep when my mother brought them from the shuttleport.  That first day when I got up, the tallest man I had ever seen was standing in the middle of our kitchen preparing the morning meal._ ” 

She ducked her head to hide the smile she couldn’t quite control, the emotional expression at odds with the controlled, logical language she was speaking and quickly composed her features into something mostly resembling a neutral expression.  When she looked back up at Spock, her hair fell across her eyes, and she pushed it behind one ear.  Still smiling, but at least it felt small and subdued and not the manic grin of a moment before.  “ _I was still half asleep, and the sight of this very tall, very serious man in our kitchen wearing one of my mother’s aprons was so unexpected, the only language I could remember was Swahili, so I ran out without saying a word._ ” 

“ _Preparation of the morning meal on the first day one is a guest in another’s home is customary in my culture_.” 

Nyota nodded.  The easy way Spock had fallen into lecturing her the same way he had on the walk to the flat, only this time on interspecies cultural differences, made her cheeks hurt as she worked not to laugh.  “ _My father explained as much when I came running into my parent’s bedroom.  I had begun learning Modern Vulcan earlier that year, and I had been planning what I was going to say first for weeks.  I had not anticipated the occurrence._

“ _I had never met a Vulcan before, and I wanted the family to like me, but I remember being quiet and awkward and shy.  I doubt I spoke more than twelve words outside of school for the first week they were our guests.  But that proved to be a benefit._ ”

“ _It is always a wise course to listen to those who possess the knowledge you desire._ ”  And then he paused, his eyes narrowing.“ _Were you attempting to learn my language without guidance?_ ”

“ _Not at first, but the person who first taught me… he couldn’t anymore._ ”Nyota ignored the way her heart sped up, but there was nothing she could do about the way her eyes stung.  She blinked a few times and continued.  _“I was working on my own.  I had never tried to learn a language without some assistance before, and I was struggling.”_

_“You did not consider that such an undertaking for a child might be difficult?”_  

Nyota shrugged, the gesture an echo of what it would have been had she been speaking a more emotionally eloquent language.  _“I knew it would not be easy, but my father had already helped me learn Spanish, French, and Arabic, and I spoke a little Hindi and some Mandarin.  I showed an early aptitude for language, and my initial lessons had gone well, so the difficulties I experienced were unexpected.”_

_“Your father did not speak Vulcan.”_

_“No, he only knew Terran languages then.  Many, but nothing from off world.”_ Nyota paused and gave him a tight, controlled smile.  “ _He had to learn quickly.  Both he and my mother.  My younger sister decided one day when she was still a toddler that Vulcan was the only language she’d speak because it was like a special, secret code she and I shared._ ”  Nyota pressed her lips together to hold back the laughter that threatened to bubble up at the memory of her father trying to guess why his 4-year-old daughter refused to take a bath one night.  Her little sister had stood in front of him, naked, shaking her head and repeating the Vulcan word for fish, _aluk-kum-tor_ , over and over again until Nyota had finally taken pity on him and found the bath toy Makena wanted.  He’d started studying that night after tucking his youngest daughter into bed and had threatened to ground Nyota if she didn’t help him.

_“But he was aware of your desire and efforts?”_   The faint crease reappeared in the space between his brows, like he couldn’t fathom her father’s lack of response to her difficulties in seeking out knowledge.

She nodded.  _“I had asked my parents as to whether it would be permissible to request assistance from our guests but was told it would be rude to impose upon them in that manner.”_

_“Then how did Torval come to teach you?_ ” Spock’s expression barely shifted, the sharpening of his gaze the only hint of his curiosity Nyota could see.

“ _He asked,_ ”she said.  “ _Torval was an instructor at one of the larger learning centers in Vulcana Regar.  When he and T’Pang decided he and their children would accompany her to Earth, he insisted his sons attend school with children their own ages.  He called it ‘an unparalleled opportunity for cross-cultural enrichment and understanding.’  Tamor, his younger son, and I were in the same class, and he embraced it.  Of course, he also possessed a keen interest in human society.  But his older brother, Stivan?  He was 13.  Am I correct in presuming that adolescent disdain is common to both our cultures?_ ”

“ _You are._ ”  Spock’s voice, which had been careful and cool since they’d switched languages, warmed, contrary to the dictates of both his culture and his language, and the tension that kept creeping back into his lips melted.  “ _It is a characteristic shared by many species._ ”

Nyota’s answering grin bloomed across her face before she could control it.  “ _In truth?_ ” 

“ _As a child, I would sometimes travel with my parents as a part of my father’s work and had ample opportunity to observe similarities between members of my peer group on a number of planets._ ” 

“ _That must have been interesting._ ”  Her curiosity had gotten the better of her, and she had to compose her features into a more neutral expression to keep her eagerness from distorting her voice.

“ _It was a singular upbringing._ ”  He hesitated before speaking again, the faint crease between his brows reappearing.“ _Do you wish to hear more?  I am amenable, if you no longer wish to discuss your Vulcan tutelage._ ”

She stared at him.  Spock could have easily interpreted her distractibility as a consequence of her being human, but instead, he was giving her the opportunity to change the subject now that she had provided the most minimal answer to his question.  For a moment, she almost forgot why she'd been at all hesitant to tell him about this part of her life.  “ _Would you tell me about it later?_ ”

“ _If you wish._ ”

Nyota pressed her lips together to keep from smiling again.  “ _Torval…_ ”

“ _Yes._ ”

Under the table, Nyota twined her ankle around one of the legs of her chair and pulled herself towards the front of the seat.  " _He conducted additional instruction periods each afternoon and on weekends for his sons to compensate for how ill-suited our school was to meet the academic needs of Vulcan students.  Those started while they resided in our home.  Even though Torval and T'Pang insisted their family speak Federation Standard out of courtesy, Torval instructed in Modern Vulcan._  

" _I started doing my schoolwork in the dining room so that I could listen to Torval and his sons as they worked on the enclosed terrace just outside."_

She looked down at the tabletop, its lavender-painted surface so different from the warm wood of the dining table in her parents' home, and traced the whirls of the wood grain that still showed through. When she spoke again, her voice was softer and even more subdued than the language dictated.  _"In the two weeks before I was caught…eavesdropping, I learned more about the Vulcan language than I had in the past three months working on my own."_

" _Your use of the title T'kahr suggests a more formal relationship than your merely overhearing lessons."_

" _Yes, and there was._ ”  She smiled again.  “ _I had thought I was being clever.  I thought I had found a way to obey my parents' instructions and still learn more of the language, but Torval knew what I was doing. My parents made him and T'Pang aware of my obsession with the language and warned them I would likely pester one or both of them, or the boys, about it. When it did not occur, Torval started to watch me."_

Spock nodded in understanding.  _"You were not as subtle as you believed.”_

" _No, clearly not,"_  Nyota replied with a modest shake of her head. " _A few days before he and his family moved into their own house, Torval interrupted one of my spying sessions to ask if he was speaking loudly enough for me to hear easily, given the inferiority of human auditory acuity when compared to that of Vulcans._

" _He spoke in Modern Vulcan, so I did not understand everything he said, but I knew that I had been discovered. I was certain he was going to tell my parents, but he offered to teach me instead._ "

" _Ah._ "

Her focus drifted back down to follow the movements of her hand over the table top.  _"At first, it was only two days a week and only Vulcan, but once I was proficient, it became most days. And then every day, and it went from Vulcan to any language I wanted, any subject I could think of. I believe Torval appreciated the challenge of adapting his teaching methods to better suit my slower, less malleable human brain.  I never got the impression that he felt limited by me.  Or that he placed any limits on what he could teach me.  Only how we’d approach it.”_

Nyota looked down at her fingers, no longer following the lines of the wood of the tabletop but idly tracing out swirling figures against the tabletop, and smiled at the memory of being given more than she had known she wanted, not caring that her delight at being so thoroughly understood by someone else was clearly wrought across her features.  _"That was my life for more than three years. I spent as much time in Torval's home as I did my own."_  She raised her eyes to Spock's and shrugged self-consciously.

" _He was important to me,"_  she said.  _"They all were."_  Nyota allowed herself a small smile. Although she'd have to put her walls back firmly in place before dealing with Sophie again, for tonight, she could let them go.  The last of the tension she'd been holding onto faded, leaving her momentarily weak and her mouth feeling like it was stuffed full of cotton wool.

She grabbed her water glass but found it empty.  The half-full bottle of water sat across the table, near Spock, but when she stretched her hand out for it, he plucked it out of her reach.  " _You speak of them in the past tense,_ " he said as he filled her glass.

Nyota's stomach, which had been calming, lurched, and her heart knocked against her ribs, so loud it was the only thing she could hear. Taking a quick drink, she closed her eyes to ease the way they stung. The shaky breath she took didn’t help at all.  Still, she made no attempt to conceal these things from Spock. She was human, after all, and grief was a logical response to loss, even one long past.

That was something Torval had drilled into her, that being human, she’d never not be emotive, but when a situation was beyond her control, she needed to be able to put her feelings to the side or they would trap her there, fighting that which could not be fought. At first, it had been difficult, and he’d assured her that doing so would become easier with time and maturity. And it had, if only marginally, but she reminded herself that she was still young. There was still time to be better, so Nyota focused on doing as she had been taught, acknowledging the grief that always seemed to come so easily and then calming it enough to put it away. 

Still there, but isolated.  Still a part of her, but separate. 

" _There was a transport accident on Vulcan three years ago. Torval and T'Pang…they died_."

Her memory of coming home from chorale practice to find her parents waiting for her was preserved in her mind like it was encased in fossil amber.  Her mother’s eyes had been rimmed in red and swollen, the same way Nyota’s got whenever she cried, and her father’s mouth was set and hard, the muscles of his jaw clenched painfully and quivering.  When they’d told her as gently as they could about the skimmer accident that had killed both Torval and his wife, she’d numbly retreated to her bedroom to find the light blinking on her personal subspace comm, the unit Tamor, the architect of so many of her childhood misadventures, had helped her build when they were both only twelve.  

It was from him, the message.  Tamor.  She’d placed the answering call immediately, and when he’d answered, his expression was stony, and his eyes were empty.  Not merely the impassiveness he’d become more and more proficient at projecting, but dead.  Lifeless.  They’d stared at one another in silence for what seemed like hours, and when Tamor finally spoke, it was to tell her that he was going to live with his mother’s parents and that this would be the last time he’d be able to contact her.  And then he’d ended the transmission, and they hadn’t spoken since. 

After that, she’d just stared at the comm screen, not really seeing it.  At some point, just before dawn, she’d moved to her bed, first sitting on the edge and then collapsed on her side.  She didn’t know how long she’d lain there, frozen in place.  Sleep hadn’t come for a long time, and when it did, it was restless and fitful and never for more than a few minutes. 

It must have been hard for her parents to leave her alone for the hours it had taken for her to emerge from her room, and when she had, her mother had held her and rocked her like a baby while she sobbed, heaving and gasping for air.  She remembered with embarrassing clarity how her sister, Makena, who had only been 5 at the time and didn’t understand what had happened, had tried to comfort her, and how her brother, Kamau, still a baby himself, had clung to their father and cried, scared of the noise and the unrestrained sorrow Nyota had been giving voice to.  When she’d finally cried herself out, she had fallen into a deep, heavy sleep for the first time since hearing about the accident.  Her father had carried her back into her room and tucked her into her bed, and Makena had curled up against her and refused to leave.

For weeks, Nyota had treated Vulcan as her primary language.  She’d needed the emotional control required to properly speak the language.  By the time her mother put an end to it, only after Makena started peppering her vocabulary at school with Vulcan words she had no business knowing, Nyota no longer needed the barrier of the language to soften her grief.

She’d only cried over the loss of Torval, and his family, that one time.

She drank from her glass again, swallowing almost convulsively, and pushed everything else away.  When she put her glass down, she was steady. " _Stivan was studying off planet, and Tamor was visiting his grandparents when it happened. Stivan and I were never close, but Tamor and I had been friends. After he went to live with his grandparents, they did not feel it appropriate for us to communicate further, so I lost them all at the same time."_

Spock was silent for a long minute.  _"This is the information you do not wish to share with Miss Lansing."_

She didn't respond; she didn't have it left in her to explain her complicated relationship with Sophie in any way that made sense, so she said nothing, staring at him and feeling a little lost in the suddenly too quiet room.

If she thought Spock had been still while she'd been speaking, he was now utterly motionless in the way that only a Vulcan could be. His attention drifted from her for the first time in what seemed like hours and turned inwards, if only for a moment. And then he blinked slowly, and his gaze sharpened on her again. "I understand," he said in Standard. "I have encountered the same difficulty with Cadet Schroeder."

She'd already been translating back and forth in the back of her mind the entire time they'd spoken in Vulcan, so his sudden shift in languages was easy enough for her to negotiate, at least on a mental level. But she gaped at him, not only because of the unexpected change in subject, but for the more personal nature of his response. "How long have you known him?"

"We were assigned to share living quarters when I entered the Academy." He watched her closely…no, appraised her. Nyota was about to ask him to elaborate when his jaw set firm, and he continued speaking. "In most respects, he has been a satisfactory roommate; however, he often presumes that our sharing quarters confers upon him a right to an intimate knowledge of myself and my family."

"And you don't agree," she offered, not wanting to push, but with her curiosity at how similar their situations appeared to be, at least on the surface, she couldn’t help but want more details.

Spock nodded, a single, deliberate drop of his chin. "Our association has largely been one of circumstance."

"Does he know about your parents?"

"Yes, it was a necessary disclosure. Cadet Schroeder's family has a history of service in Starfleet. I believe we were paired because his discretion was assured."

The flat tenor of his voice masked anything he might have felt about Martin, and if Nyota hadn't heard him convey warmth, humor, curiosity with only the smallest change in tone, she might have accepted that he had no opinion. As it was, she didn't have the history needed to parse him in anything but broader strokes, but she strongly suspected he had no interest in discussing Martin Schroeder any further. She certainly didn't.

"Tell me something he doesn't know."

Spock visibly straightened. His earlier comfort and ease dwindled, and his eyes darkened, the brown of his irises unbroken by any other color and nearly as black as his pupils, and Nyota was certain she'd pushed too hard. And then he leaned forward again, and the hard edge to his expression faded. "In addition to playing the ka'athyra, I also play the piano."

"Okay." That was innocuous enough and certainly not the kind of disclosure that warranted the consideration he’d given it. But when Spock continued, the air rushed out of her lungs.  She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath.

"My mother taught me to play when I was a child, not long after I chose to follow the path of Surak," he said, his voice low and even, taking on an intimate quality, although there was no discernible change in tone. "She told me it was her way of reminding me that I was her son. I did not understand her meaning at the time, but I complied. I found the exercise challenging and the time spent in her company highly gratifying. Our lessons continued until I left for the Academy, although by that time, I had surpassed her instruction."

Nyota kept herself as still as she was able, squeezing her knees together to keep from fidgeting where she sat, and tried to emulate the singular focus of his earlier attentiveness. His eyes held hers, and he must have seen what he needed because after a moment, he began again.

"My father is an accomplished ka'athyra player, and he first oversaw my training with that instrument, before I began to study under a master, so both of my parents have contributed to my musical education." The corners of his mouth curved upwards.  Just barely. "This does not prevent my mother from asserting that my aptitude for music is a trait I inherited from her. This is a regular topic of debate between my parents."

"My parents do that all the time with my siblings and me." Nyota gave him a small smile. "Argue about who gets what trait from which parent? But it's usually when one of us gets in trouble."

"I concluded some time ago that this was a human line of inquiry, which explains my mother’s continued pursuit of a subject she knows my father finds illogical. However, my father's willingness to participate in what is, in its essentials, the same discourse repeatedly has remained a mystery."

"Have you ever asked him about it?"

"Yes," he said, his body angling almost imperceptibly closer to her. "He explained that my mother derived significant enjoyment from these discussions and that he, in turn, took great satisfaction from pleasing her. However, I believe my father is fond of these encounters as well.”  He hesitated.  “He initiates them himself at times, albeit infrequently. Since coming to this realization, I have made an effort to play when they are both present."

"So they can tease each other." Nyota had barely spoken the words before she wanted them back and pressed her hand over mouth.  Her eyes were wide. She hadn't meant to say what she'd been thinking, but she hadn't been able to stop herself.

He stared, unwavering, the perfect cupid's bow of his mouth becoming more and more pronounced until he finally spoke. "Vulcans do not tease." If it hadn't been for the faint light in his eyes, his brisk tone would have convinced her she’d offended him, but as it was, she was having difficulty interpreting his reaction.

“Okay.”

“You do not believe me.”  His voice was almost grave, but then the corners of his mouth twitched upwards, and the stern lines of his jaw loosened. 

The tumblers turning in her mind clicked into place.  He thought this was funny.  Yes, that had to be it.  “No, I’m sure you’re right,” she responded.  She kept her tone light and innocent.  Teasing.

“I assure you that I am.”

“The same way you were right when you told me that Vulcans don’t laugh?  Except that I’m pretty sure you were laughing at me at the time, or whatever the Vulcan equivalent is.”

“Yes, precisely.”  His expression didn’t change, but his eyes, which were really too expressive, crinkled at the corners and brightened a little more.

And it was that look that tipped her over the edge, that made her unable to rein in the smile she’d been holding back.  “I’m beginning to think I can’t believe anything you tell me about being Vulcan.” 

“Vulcans do not lie.”  Gravity was still present in his voice, but it now stood in stark contrast to the comfortable way his shoulders settled back against the chair once again.  “However, I am half human.”

Nyota couldn’t do anything but laugh, and she couldn’t think of anything except how much she liked the man sitting across from her and how he was leaving in two days.  She was in so much trouble.  San Francisco wasn’t that far away, but she didn’t know whether he was interested in more than just that night.  And if, or when, he went off planet…She gave herself a mental shake. It really wasn’t the right time to be thinking about all of that.  Not with him still sitting across from her, looking at her with darkly brilliant eyes.  Or at something over her shoulder.  Staring, really. 

“What is it?”  She swiveled around and craned her neck and found herself glaring at the chronometer on the wall behind her. 

“Nyota.”  The way he said her name, flat and impersonal, sent a small shiver down her spine.  “As enjoyable as I have found our discourse, it is growing late.”

She nodded, and her heart sank a little.  “Sophie will be home soon.  I should probably get this cleaned up.” 

The scrape of her chair against the floor was disconcertingly loud, and she tried not to wince as she rose to her feet and carried their plates and cutlery over to the kitchen sink.  When she turned to clear the takeaway containers, Spock was already beside her, depositing several of the still partially-full boxes on the worktop next to her.  “I will finish clearing the table,” he murmured.  “It will be more efficient if you store the remaining food.”

“Thank you.”

Spock gathered the remaining leftovers and placed them next to her within easy reach.  For a moment, she stood frozen, not focused on anything in particular and listening to the quick, efficient way Spock moved in and around her.  Never quite brushing against her, but coming close enough that she thought it might be deliberate.  Which was silly because if he meant to touch her, he’d touch her.  That was enough to get her moving. 

Nyota scraped what little food still clung to the plates into the resequencer for the food replicator and loaded them into the sanitizer, only half her attention to what she was doing, the remainder of her focus on not speculating as to what Spock was thinking.  It was getting late, as he had pointed out, and presuming he’d stay longer now that dinner was over and Sophie was coming home just wasn’t realistic.

As she worked on storing the food they hadn’t eaten, she schooled her voice so that her next words wouldn’t sound too anxious.  “I don’t know if you have a curfew or…anything.”  She rolled her eyes at her own lack of brilliance.  She should have just asked him to stay and been done with it, but she had to know one way or the other, and she hadn’t been able to. 

Spock didn’t answer right away, but she could hear him behind her, methodically breaking down one of the containers before putting it in the recycling unit.  “Do you wish for me to leave?”

Her chest seemed to constrict, the oxygen squeezed out of her lungs leaving no room to draw another breath, and she spun around.  “No.  I just wanted you to know that if you had to leave, or wanted to, I understand.”

His posture was tense and rigid, and she half expected him to go back to recycling the stasis containers without responding, but then he closed the space between them in two long, slow strides.  “I would prefer to stay.”  His voice was little more than a breath, and he drew her hand into his and reached up to brush his fingers along her jaw.

His touch smoldered against her skin, and she couldn’t help but shy away and press her face into her shoulder, but this only served to turn her cheek further into his hand.  His fingers stole up and grazed her earlobe and tickled the outer curve of her ear.  “Nyota?”

She took a shaking breath and nodded, and the tightness in her chest loosened.  “Okay.”

Spock’s fingers slid into her hair and came to rest at the nape of her neck, and he pulled her mouth up to his.  There was nothing tentative about way he kissed her or the way he dragged her body hard against his, and Nyota rose up on her toes and twined her arms up around his back.  And when he opened his mouth to her, the spices from the meal they’d shared blended and mingled with the taste of him and created something heady and rich and starkly alien, kindling an answering rush of heat between her legs.

She didn’t notice when he backed her up against the cupboards because his fingers had stolen away from where he’d cradled the back of her head and were tracing along the outline of her breast through the thin fabric of her dressing gown and teasing gently over her nipple.  When the pressure from his fingers increased, she pressed into him and breathed a soft, mewling sigh into his mouth.  She was almost clumsy tugging at the hem of his shirt, so that she could push the fabric up his body and slip her hands against the smooth, hot, dry skin of his torso and pushed the fabric up his body.  He was wearing too many clothes again.

But then Spock pulled away.  Nyota vaguely knew the petulant whimper she let out should have been mortifying, but she was too concerned with trying to pull him back to her to care.  His hands found hers where she was again struggling with the closure on his trousers, and he gently removed them from his body and held them between his own.  His chest rose and fell rapidly.  “I fear if we continue, Miss Lansing will return home to find us in a very compromising position.”

Nyota licked at her lips and raised up to kiss him one last time before she pulled her hands out of his and turned back to the dwindling mess that was still scattered across the worktop.  “Then we should finish cleaning up and go back to bed.”

“Indeed.”


	17. Chapter 17

Not for the first time since he had watched Nyota Uhura cross the room of a crowded public house two nights before, Spock felt unsettled.  It had not been his intention to spend the entire night in her company or, more accurately, in her bed, but when Nyota had offered him the opportunity to leave, he had not been prepared for the sudden rush of … dissatisfaction that she might no longer desire his presence.  The relief he had felt when she asked him to stay had also been unexpected.  The rutting lust, he had no other words for it because that was quite accurately what it was, that had flooded him the instant he had touched her again was becoming too disconcertingly familiar.

After they had finished clearing away the remains of their meal, he had excused himself, ostensibly to make use of the hygiene facilities, but in truth, so that he could calm himself and regain some measure of control over his mental and physical impulses before he returned to Nyota.  Which was why he was on his knees on the small, blue rug in front of the washstand, his eyes closed and his fingertips pressed together with such force, the skin had turned white from a lack of blood flow.  He slowly drew in deep lungsful of air, willing his thrumming heartbeat to slow to normalcy and his mind to still.  He was not having any success.

His body remained tightly coiled with sexual arousal, his _lok_ was erect and engorged with blood, and his thoughts were chaotic with the frustration that his and Nyota’s earlier couplings had done little to abate his physical desire for her.  From their first encounter, she had been far more appealing to him than the usual bright, well-educated, ambitious young women who surrounded him at the Academy.  That her intelligence had a depth and complexity he found fascinating; that it was obvious that she was interested in him, in knowing him rather than merely treating him as something to be experienced; that he enjoyed her company as much, if not more than her body had only strengthened this preference.   He wanted little more than to tear the robe she had worn throughout dinner from her body, push her down on her bed, spread her legs, and bury his _lok_ inside her.

He struggled to calm his heart, but it pounded against his side with a violent ferocity at the mental image of Nyota writhing beneath him in pleasure as he drove into her again and again.  He took some comfort that his pulsing need was confined to her body, which she had proven more than willing to share with him.  Thankfully, he did not have the same urge to possess her mind, an act far more intimate than those in which they had already engaged and, therefore, far more dangerous.   Without both her consent and understanding, the violation would be unforgivable.  Spock inhaled deeply, his distaste at the idea of taking her in such a way finally allowing him to master the physical need that threatened to engulf him. 

As he worked through the initial stages of a light meditative trance, his body relaxed and loosened, and his heart rate normalized.  He quickly rebuilt his mental and emotional defenses and controls, telling himself that it would be sufficient to allow him to maintain his balance until Nyota fell asleep.  He would meditate more fully then, and if that was not adequate, he would be in Oxford for two more days, and he was certain that was ample time to better understand the effect Nyota had on him.

He stood and washed his hands, noting with approval the unscented cleansing products set out on the vanity.  He pressed his wet fingers to his face, the residual moisture cool against his skin, and needlessly smoothed his hair over his forehead.  Satisfied that his mind and body had been restored to their usual state of calm and order, Spock retraced the path down the hall to Nyota’s bedroom and stepped inside.

She sat on the edge of her bed in the light of the lamp on the bedside table.   If Spock had anticipated that she would have already removed her clothing, he would have been disappointed, but he had no such expectation and, consequently, no emotional investment in her current state of dress.   That she still wore her robe did not concern him.  The garment was held closed by only the sash tied at her waist, and removing it would pose no difficulty.  However, the evident tension with which she held her body and the pinched expression on her face as she studied the comm unit in her hand were disquieting.

She began tapping out a reply to the message she had been reading, and her fingers moved purposefully and efficiently, the force with which she struck the screen audible across the room.

“Nyota?”  Spock quieted when she lifted her hand, her index finger raised in the same manner his mother used to signal that he should momentarily desist.  Her eyes never left the screen, and when she finished typing out her response, he began again.  “What has occurred?”

Nyota tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she turned to give him a tight smile that was reflected in neither her bearing nor her eyes.  “Sophie just messaged me.  She’s on her way home.”

“Will Miss Lansing object to my presence?”

“No,” she said, the word harsh and abrupt.  “Or at least she’d better not.”

Spock took care to keep his features composed and neutral despite the undesirable news that Nyota’s roommate might intrude upon their privacy, but she must have seen something that caused her concern.  “Look,” she continued, her words almost running together in her haste to…reassure him?  Herself? Perhaps both of them.  “Sophie brings guys back here all the time, so she doesn’t get to complain.  The soundproofing’s state of the art.  And she helped set up that disaster with your roommate earlier, so your being here isn’t going to come as a surprise.”

Her attention was drawn back to her comm when it signaled another incoming message, a fast, rhythmic series of chimes.  “Sorry, I just need a minute,” she said, scanning the screen.

His query having been addressed satisfactorily, Spock crossed to where he had arranged his uniform jacket over the chair at Nyota’s desk.  His shirt lay on the seat, precisely folded to Starfleet requirements, and his belt was coiled nearly on top of it.  Given the vehemence with which she was composing her response to this most recent communication, he presumed that she would not be otherwise occupied for more than a minute, perhaps two, and their planned activities did not require clothing.  He stripped his black undershirt off over his head and folded it to the same specifications as his uniform shirt and proceeded to remove his trousers.  He was draping these over the chair with his jacket when Nyota closed her comm and set it down again.

“You don’t have an issue…”  Her voice trailed off when he stepped out of his regulation trunks.  “I guess not.”

When he looked up, she was watching him, motionless, openly staring at his body.  Spock could hear her heart rate increase and her breathing quicken, even from across the room.  Her pupils had dilated, making her exceptionally expressive eyes dark and unfathomable, and he found himself inexorably drawn closer to her.  Her scent ripened and deepened.  If only the light was brighter, he would be able to see the flush that was likely spreading across her chest and shoulders, something that might not have been apparent to him if he had been solely human.

And then Nyota shook off her paralysis and closed the last of the distance between them herself.  The muscles of his abdomen twitched at the cool caress of her fingertips.  She ran the flat of her palm over his stomach to lay against his side, over his heart.  The normal cadence of his heartbeat could be sufficient to alarm her, given her professed unfamiliarity with Vulcan physiology.  Its current elevation as a result of his state of sexual excitement would, in all probability, only be more so, but his pulse continued to race, despite his efforts to calm it. 

“Is that your heart?”  Nyota’s voice was hushed, hesitant.

“Yes.”

“Is that…normal?  For you, I mean.”

“No.  Under ordinary circumstances, my heart rate averages two hundred thirty-six beats per minute.  However, it is currently elevated by 10.2%.  Because of your proximity.”  He added the last piece of information almost as an afterthought.

Nyota closed her eyes, her hand still resting against his side, and she grew very still.  Two small vertical creases formed between her brows, focused as she was on the rhythm of his heart, and when she glanced back up at him, her eyes were wide, and something about her expression was so joyful that Spock couldn’t help but reach up and trace the outline of her lips.  That she could be made so happy by this one small confession was fascinating.

His fingers moved from her mouth to her chin and tilted her face up, and he kissed her.  Her response was immediate and enthusiastic, her arms wrapping around his waist and her mouth soft and pliant.  If she did not stop, the tether he had placed on his want for her would snap, but Nyota molded her body to his, and Spock decided that he did not care.  He grasped her hips and pulled her tightly to him, and his _lok_ grew hard and exquisitely sensitive from the intimacy of their contact and the friction of their bodies. 

He was maneuvering Nyota towards her bed when her comm signaled again, the same rhythmic chime as previously. 

“Do you wish to answer that?”  Spock loosened his hold, but she stretched up and kissed the underside of his jaw. 

“It’s just Sophie,” she murmured.  She worked her way down his neck and nipped at the skin over his pulse, sending an electric jolt through him.  “It’s not important.”

“Agreed.”  He lowered his face into her hair and then to the juncture of her neck and shoulder and breathed in the primal smell of her arousal, inextricably mingled with the unique scent of her, and beneath that, the ubiquitous tang of human sweat.  While at times overpowering to his Vulcan-attuned senses when faced with humanity en masse, he had never found it offensive or unpleasant.  Instead, now, it brought him home.

He slowly released his grip on her hips, and he slid his hands up her body to the collar of her robe and considered how best to remove it.  The garment was old and well-worn, the cloth soft and somewhat threadbare, and it seemed to be as much a part of her as her skin or her scent.  He would need to be gentle. 

When his finger brushed against her skin, her growing arousal bled into him, and his hand clenched around the fabric.  He gripped her arm and dragged the neckline of her robe open, baring her shoulder and breast, but her surprised gasp barely registered as he lowered his mouth to the dip in her neck just above her collarbone. 

She was cool under his tongue, and he lapped at the faint residue of salt that coated her skin.  Releasing the fabric of her robe, he found her bared breast, gently kneading until the nipple hardened against his palm.  His other hand dropped to undo the belt of her robe, but just as the knot loosened, Nyota’s comm went off.

“Oh.”  Nyota dropped her head to his shoulder with a quiet groan.  “I am going to kill her.”

Spock discontinued his efforts to further remove her clothing, and his cheek grazed her hair as he bent to speak softly in her ear.  “Although I cannot find fault with the sentiment, perhaps muting your communications device would be a more reasonable response than homicide.”

He pressed his lips softly to her temple, as his mother frequently did when she thought him distressed.  He had always tolerated the unnecessary gesture as she, herself, seemed to derive some measure of comfort from it, but Spock was gratified that it appeared to have the intended effect on Nyota because she relaxed against him and laughed before pulling away.

As she crossed back to the bedside table, her robe fell open, baring her body entirely.  She worked quickly, not just silencing her communicator but powering it down completely.  “I’m sorry,” she said and stowed the device in the table’s single drawer after the screen grew dark.

Spock did not understand the human tendency to apologize for situations over which they had no control.  Nyota was apparently no different in this regard.  “You are not responsible for Miss Lansing’s actions,” he reminded her.

She frowned, and her shoulders lifted.  “Actually, I might have had something to with that.”  She looked down, seemingly becoming aware of her near nudity for the first time, and she pulled her robe tightly around her and rubbed at her elbow. 

“In what way?”  He was tempted to go to her to keep her from cinching the belt around her waist again, but he hesitated.

“That second message I sent?  I told her I was busy and to leave me alone.”

Spock did not try to conceal his amusement at the connection between her message and the multitude of communications she had received in the short period of time after sending it.  Or his satisfaction at her response, and he allowed the corners of his mouth to curl upwards.  “You believe Miss Lansing considered this a challenge.”

“One she takes very personally.” 

“Then I shall endeavor to occupy you sufficiently so that you have told her the truth.”

Nyota studied him for what subjectively felt like several minutes but was objectively only three seconds, and bit by bit, the tension that had stiffened her neck and shoulders when her comm had rung released its hold. 

She held his gaze and brushed past him to stand in front of the freestanding wardrobe where she slipped her robe off her shoulders.  Her skin seemed to glow in the soft light, dark and liquid, like the nectar of the kusut-vedik plant, a substance that was slick and hot to the touch and used to create balms that absorbed into the skin to soothe the body and restore the spirit.  He did not indulge his fanciful comparison, knowing that her body would be cool and soft under his hands, but he did not so easily ignore the thought that she was a balm, restoring his balance and calm as much as she upset it.

Nyota glanced back at him over her shoulder and smiled.  “What did you have in mind?”  She turned and walked to where he had remained next to her bed and reached for him. 

Warmth…longing…hunger…dominion…solace…release.  Pleasure.  He sorted through his competing desires and arrived at the same conclusion each time.  “Whatever you wish.”

Her eyes grew wide, and her touch left traces of her surprise and delight everywhere.  “Really?”

He nodded, the barest incline of his head, and she smiled again.  “Okay,” she whispered, pressing her lips against his shoulder.  Her hands skimmed over his ribs, and he struggled to keep still as her desire crackled on his skin.

Her teeth grazed over his collar bone and raised the fine, almost invisible, hair that covered his neck and shoulders, and he shivered.  Spock made a half-hearted attempt to track the systemic responses that caused this reaction, but the waves of sexual hunger that seeped into him from her every time their bodies slid together was far more compelling.  He barely noticed backing into the bed because all he could focus on was the way her mouth moved across his shoulders, how her breasts pressed against his chest, the grind of her hips into his, and he had to push her away to keep from falling backwards.

Nyota made a noise deep in her throat, stubborn and wanting, and tightened her hold around his waist.  The way she leaned into him and eased her leg between his threatened to upset his balance to such a degree, Spock had no other choice but to lower himself to sit on the edge of the mattress. 

As he settled, Nyota moved with him and pushed his knees apart so that she could stand between them, her hands wandering over his shoulders and neck, up to his face.  Her touch was so light, he might not have felt anything if it hadn’t been for a sudden unsteadiness in his breathing and the stuttering rhythm of his heart.  His eyes fluttered closed so that he could better focus on her fingers tracing along his jawline, over the sharply-angled tips of his ears, and across his brow.  Spock forced himself to take a long, steady breath when she tipped his face upwards, her exploration seemingly ended.

He welcomed her stillness, but instead of bringing order, the cessation of her hands moving over him only increased his agitation.  Her eyes were nearly black, the dim light causing her pupils to expand until there was only a thin ring of dark brown iris visible.  He gripped the backs of her thighs and drew her closer, but she braced her hands on his shoulders, resisting, and Spock loosened his hold.

Given their proximity and their current state of undress, it was improbable that he had misinterpreted her intent, and he squinted up at her.  “Nyota?”  His voice was calm and steady and did not reflect the extent of his confusion.  Which should not have been a concern, but given how tenuous his grasp on his impulses had been with her, it would have been illogical to not have a conscious awareness of his difficulties at the very least.

She pressed her finger against his lips, delicate and precise and effectively silencing him.  “You said whatever I wish,” she murmured. 

“Then what do you wish?” 

She tipped his head back and scattered kisses along his jaw until she reached his earlobe.  “Lie down,” she whispered.  Her breath was a soft, warm rush against his ear, sending an answering heat along the nerves of his cheek and scalp and set his psi-receptors tingling in anticipation.

Spock considered her request.  She wished to control this encounter.  It was not unexpected with the way she had held herself away from him earlier, and he contemplated the most likely outcomes should he acquiesce.  They were highly agreeable.  He moved more fully onto the bed and swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat, ignoring how his heard stubbornly resisted all attempts to control its wild tempo, now so fast it was a constant, pulsating rumble against his side.

Before he was completely settled, Nyota crawled over to him, her added weight shifting the mattress underneath him.  Her hair fell over her shoulders and tickled against his face as she bent to kiss him, enveloping him in her scent, and Spock twisted his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck to keep her from drawing away again.  The buzz from the bio-electrical focal point, the _qui’lari_ , at the base of her skull called to him, tempted him for the first time to press his fingers there and reach for her mind.  But he only tightened his grip in her hair and explored her mouth with an almost desperate hunger. 

Her helpless sighs and gasps, which grew increasingly urgent as his mouth moved against hers sent a quiver down his spine, and his _lok_ twitched in response.  When she finally collected herself and pushed away from him, breathless and unsteady, he struggled to release her, but he did, his only outward show of reluctance the way he bit into her lower lip before letting her go.

Nyota pressed her hand against his chest, wordlessly urged him to stay in his prone position.  Her rate of respiration had increased, and her fingers were warmer than what he had assessed as her norm, indicating a corresponding rise in her body temperature.  Spock was illogically pleased by these signs of her arousal.

He covered her hand with his own.  A nagging curiosity picked at him to test whether he could intensify her need with his own as he would with a Vulcan partner.  He was certain she would be amenable if he were to ask, but then she would be subverting her own desires for his and that was unacceptable.  What was to occur next should be her decision.  He squeezed her hand gently, released it, and waited.  He did not need to wait for long.

“Let me know if I do anything I shouldn’t.”  Her voice was small and uncertain.  But then her hands moved over his chest, and she leaned over him again and trailed soft, cool kisses down his neck and across his shoulder.

Nyota was meticulous in her exploration, becoming more certain with each discreet sign of pleasure he showed as she worked her way down his body.  Spock was, for the most part, able to maintain his composure, but when her lips followed the path of her hands across his chest, somehow managing to leave every nerve she crossed vibrating and on fire with nothing more than a trail of damp kisses, he was unable to keep from pressing his hand to the back of her head to hold her in place until he could re-assert mastery over his roiling need.  When her teeth grazed the sensitive skin along his ribcage, she halted her progress at his soft, sharp inhale and glanced up at him with concern.  She only continued once he had reassured her that her actions had been acceptable.

His hands proved the biggest challenge to his tenuous rein on his self-control.  Nyota had been touching them all night, but in a distinctly human manner that had posed no difficulties.  But now, in her bed, both of them unclothed, with her cradling his hand and stroking her fingers along his in an unknowing imitation of a Vulcan gesture used only between intimates or bonded pairs, her liking for him and her enjoyment of him clearly transmitted through her touch, his hand convulsed around hers and his neck arched, pressing his head back against the bed.

Fear that she had possibly overstepped quickly followed, and she dropped his hand, flustered.  “I’m sorry,” she said, hastily.  “I know your hands are sensitive —”

“There was nothing untoward about your touch,”  he panted after he had gathered himself enough to speak and levered himself up so that he could slide his fingers along her cheek in what he meant to be a reassuring gesture but ended with his hand shaking with the effort to keep from reaching for her temple.  “It was only more stimulating than I had anticipated.  Please continue.” 

She gazed down at him and then turned her face into his hand and pressed a kiss into his palm.  And then another to his fingertips as he slipped his hand from her cheek and down her body, drifting over the long lines of her throat and closing gently around her breast, rolling the nipple between this thumb and forefinger and almost losing himself in the way she squeezed her eyes tightly closed and bit at her bottom lip, her breath coming in sharp, quick gasps.  But again, he pushed his need aside, leashed it in firmly, and settled back against the mattress, his hand dropping back to rest at his side. 

That it was becoming more difficult to wrestle against his physical desires each time they reasserted themselves and not easier with repetition as logic would suggest was something that required further contemplation.  Another item to include on the already lengthy list of reactions, thoughts, urges Nyota Uhura inspired and upon which he intended to meditate at his earliest opportunity.

But certainly not then.  Later. Much later, when Nyota’s fingers were not digging into the flesh of his thigh.

Spock had not realized his feet were ticklish.  He did not like it, but the amusement Nyota unwittingly broadcast at the way his toes curled when she ran her fingers along his soles seemed a fair trade for the temporary discomfort.  She trailed her hand up his calf and leaned down to press a soft kiss to his kneecap before continuing along his other thigh to run her nails over the iliac crest of his hip bone.  Spock sat up, his weight resting on his elbows to better observe her progress.

Throughout her exploration, Nyota had carefully avoided his genitals, but there had been isolated moments of contact.  Such as when she had pressed her ear to his side and spent several minutes listening to his heartbeat, all the while tracing lazy patterns over his abdomen.  Her fingertips had brushed against him then, but she had not ventured further.  Or when she had kissed her way down his sternum, stopping at his navel, his _lok_ pressed firmly against her stomach and then her breastbone as she slid over him.  But she had moved away again, leaving him otherwise untouched. 

When he had adjusted his position, she glanced at him, as if verifying that he was not planning to interfere, only observe, and her weight shifted so that she could press her mouth to his hip. 

As she leaned over him, her hair fell forward and obscured her actions from his view.  Spock reached for her, and Nyota was immediately still, relaxing again when his only action was to gather her hair and pull it away from her face.  Her lips curved upwards, and she placed another kiss on the sharp jut of his hip bone and then sat up so that she could twist her hair into a knot at the back of her neck.

“Better?”  Her hand drifted up his inner thigh, and the muscles there tensed and bunched at her touch. 

“Yes, much,” he said, barely voicing his words so as not to distract her. 

And then her fingers were on him, cautious and tentative, trailing lightly up his _lok_ where it lay against his stomach, almost painfully rigid and swollen in his heightened state of arousal, and he stifled the moan that rose, unbidden, in his throat.  Nyota watched him, worry flickering in her eyes.  “Is this okay?  I wasn’t thinking before when I –”

Spock nodded sharply, cutting her off, not trusting his voice to remain steady, but he felt her apprehension drain away, and she turned her attention back to where her hand continued to travel along his length.  Her fingers closed around him, still light.  Still teasing, even as her movements became more purposeful, and his hips thrust upwards, the almost non-existent pressure she exerted nearly overwhelming.  He fought to reassert his equilibrium, to disregard how smooth and cool her skin was again his, to force himself to ignore how her breathing had grown fast and shallow, matching his until he drew in deep, purposeful breaths, slowing his respiration and, finally, his heart rate, so that he could focus on Nyota without losing himself to the sensation of her hands on him.

He stared, riveted by the way her hands moved gently over his _lok_ , as if she were studying him and cataloging the differences between his body and those of her previous human partners.  There were a number for such strikingly similar species, and he was curious as to her thoughts.  But then she caught him watching her and her grip tightened.  Her movements became more sure, and Nyota rewarded the groan that escaped him with a soft laugh.  She dipped her head down to kiss his hip again.  Once.  Twice.  And then she took him in her mouth, and all thought was lost to him for a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:
> 
> Lok - penis
> 
> Qui'lari - The natural bioelectrical focal points for Vulcan touch-telepathy. Located at the temples. In humans, also at the base of the skull.
> 
> Just a quick note to say hi to anyone who's just discovering this story and to thank everybody for their wonderful comments. I get so excited to know that people are enjoying this.
> 
> Thanks to the Vulcan Language Dictionary and Memory Alpha. They are invaluable resources.
> 
> Regarding the focal point at the base of the skull, it's my understanding that these are similar to chakras, and it made sense to me that humans and Vulcans wouldn't necessarily have them in all the same places. There is a chakra at the base of the skull, and I've always been struck by how in the 2009 reboot, Spock cradles the back of Uhura's head in his hand when he's saying goodbye to her on the transporter platform. And I got this idea that it was one of the places he could, not touch her mind, but feel the buzz of it without intruding. So the back of her neck is this serious erogenous zone for him which is why he touches it so much in my head-canon. It's dead sexy, but it's still safe.


	18. Chapter 18

British pool was weird.  Martin had thought so ever since a trip to London with his high school Shakespeare club and he’d first encountered the game of blackball.  Staring down at the scattering of solid red and yellow-colored balls spread out over the faded green felt surface of the ancient table, he found very little to change that opinion.  The table was too small.  So were the balls.  And as far as he was concerned, there were far too many red ones.

Like everything else that night, the table, squat and stolid on its thick wood legs, only emphasized how out of place he was.  Martin preferred the sleek, clean lines of the anti-grav tables at the Academy Club.  Tables that automatically leveled and adjusted for things like heavy footsteps or accidental jarring.  The old-fashioned cue felt heavy and unevenly weighted, and he had to remind himself not to touch his clothes because his fingers were covered in the strange blue chalk that was supposed to keep the tip of the cue from slipping when it struck the ball.  If Spock were there, he’d probably say something like “increase the friction coefficient” or point out that the powdery blue stuff wasn’t really chalk.

Not that he was probably speaking to Martin at that point.  The Vulcan version of the silent treatment had been a surprise the first time he’d been its object only a month into their rooming together.  Spock had come home from the library or the computer lab or the flight simulator or someplace to Martin and three of their fellow squad members a little drunk and trying to hack into his personal PADD.  The Vulcan hadn’t reacted, only reclaimed his PADD and quietly asked the other cadets vacate their quarters, but Martin had been as much in the doghouse as he’d ever been with his folks for missing curfew or taking his mother’s hovercar without permission or teasing his baby genius sister.

On the other side of the table, Solórzano glared at him, but he ignored her and continued his he searched for the best shot.  The captain of the UCLA team, Angela, stood next to her, leaning on a cue, and Caressa was perched on a chair off to one side, engrossed in something on her comm.  The light flickering from the screen illuminated her delighted expression, the game totally forgotten.  Hell, Klingons could have probably invaded, and Caressa wouldn’t notice, and for the life of him, Martin couldn’t figure out how he and Solórzano were losing.  Well, other than his shitty playing because he wasn’t close to sober yet; he was just good at passing.

He circled the table one more time and finally found a shot.  He bridged the shaft of the cue over the back of his hand and took his time, correcting for the poorly balanced weight of the stick, the slope of the table, and the slight tremor in his hands, a side effect of the detox hypo from earlier.  He didn’t appreciate the irony that the city of Oxford was making him feel a little like the cue in his hand:  used and a little off center.  Or maybe it was just Sophie.  The image of her laughing while she pressed a stack of napkins against the fly of one of those guys in the bar earlier flashed through his brain, and the cue snagged as it slid over his hand.  The crack when the cue ball struck its target would have been far more satisfying if his shot hadn’t gone wide.

Solórzano groaned.  “Dude, why are you even playing?”

“You begged me,” Martin protested.

“Well, you’re usually better than this,” she said, marching around the table.  “I don’t even think you’re trying.”

Martin grumbled to himself.  He just couldn’t win tonight.  Set your roommate up with the girl he had a thing for and he walked out on you, even after you proved she was using him.  Get talked into playing pool when you didn’t want to, and get reamed a new one when your game wasn’t up to par.  His jaw locked, and he had to consciously unclench his teeth to respond.  “So sue me for not being perfect all the time.”

“Trust me, you’re not.”

“Do you guys need me to call a marriage counselor?”  Angela straightened, and a look of concern flitted across her face.

“Don’t worry about it.” Solórzano reached for Martin’s pool cue.  “Do you mind if we call it a game?”

Angela glanced over at Caressa, who was still giggling at her comm, and shrugged.  “No problem.”

Solórzano turned back to Martin and tried to take his cue, but he tightened his grip, as much to keep her from noticing the way his fingers shook as to hold the stick in place.  “You want to explain what that was about?” he asked.

“You’re not in the game, so I thought I’d do you a favor.”  She tugged on the cue again, tried to twist it out of his hands, her mouth set and determined.  “Let go,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

“No, we weren’t done.”  He yanked the cue back, but Solórzano dug her feet in and shifted her weight backwards to give herself more leverage.  She wasn’t a big woman, but she put her hand-to-hand combat training to good use and held her own as they struggled over the stick.

“So I guess you weren’t finished humiliating yourself?” she snapped.

Martin knew how ridiculous they must look, like two children fighting over a toy, but he didn’t care.  The day had been rough enough without Solórzano’s nagging, and he was about to dump her on her ass when her words sunk in.  The day _had_ been rough enough already.  Why was he fighting her?  She _was_ doing him a favor, regardless of her motivation, which he suspected had less to do with his well-being and everything to do with her being irritated at him.  He’d be ungrateful not to appreciate that.  Not unlike a certain Vulcan.

He relaxed his grip on the cue but didn’t completely let go to keep Solórzano from tumbling ass over tea kettle. 

“No,” he said, pouting a little for her benefit.  “ I was finished.”  His tone was a perfect imitation of hers, something he hoped would break the tension.  With Spock likely ignoring him for the duration of the trip, if not longer, he didn’t want to alienate anyone else. 

Solórzano stared, suspicious at first, and then she cast her eyes up towards the ceiling, took the cue, and walked away.  “You suck,” she shot back over her shoulder. 

Martin trailed after her.  “I never said I didn’t.” 

She shoved the cue into a rack on the wall and turned to face him, her hands on her hips.  She was trying to scowl, but a muscle in her cheek twitched, and her expression twisted as she tried not to smile.  “Asshole,” she muttered, fondly and grinned.  “Why can I never stay mad at you?”

“I don’t know.”  He slung his arm around her shoulders.  “I have it on good authority you’re kind of a masochist.”

She shoved him away, laughing.  “Couldn’t just leave it alone, could you?” she said, walking away from the pool tables and back to the rest of the group across the room.

“Oh, come one,” he called after her.  “You know you love me.”

The hand gesture Solórzano aimed at him was so far outside the military norm, Martin laughed loud and hard, the stress from the evening finally letting loose.  It was suddenly easy to breathe again for the first time since he’d read the results from the day’s round, and his laughter felt almost foreign.

“Are you okay?”

Martin jumped.  He’d forgotten Angela was there.  Caressa, too, for that matter, who was still transfixed by whatever she was watching on her comm.

“Yeah,” he said, catching his breath.  “I’m more than okay.  Thanks.”

“Good.”  Angela shifted her weight uneasily and crossed her arms over her chest.  “So, what just happened?”

“I think we forfeited.”  Angela stared at him, not reacting, so Martin tried again, saying, “Why don’t we get a drink, and I’ll tell you about my very bad day.  Well, parts of it.”

She smiled.  “Deal.  Hey, Caressa.”  She turned when the other girl didn’t respond and called her again, her tone sharper and louder.  “Caressa…”

The blonde’s attention was still glued to the screen of her comm, her expression gleeful and laser focused. 

“What is she watching?”  Martin asked.

“Cat vids.”  Angela sighed and made an annoyed little sound.  “Well, desperate times.  Carrie!”

The other girl looked up with a start, her hair falling over one eye.  “It’s _Caressa_.  I don’t call you Angie, do I?”

“Come on.  We’re done.”

Caressa blinked and looked around.  “Did we win?”

“Yes.”

“Yay!”  Caressa squealed, jumping to her feet and clapping. 

“Actually, we forfeited,” Martin tried to explain, but Caressa ignored him and bounced over to Angela.  She engulfed the other girl in an enthusiastic hug before she skipped away to the table.

“Wow,” Martin said, a little stunned.

“She’s really good with kids with speech development issues.”  She followed along in Caressa’s

Quickly losing sight of Caressa, he and Angela picked their way across the crowded barroom, but as they pushed their way through the mob around the bar, she suddenly appeared again, wriggling out from between two guys so huge they looked like the entire defensive line of Silicon Valley Niners.  “He’s here!  He’s here!”  She bobbed in place, clapping her hands for a second before grabbing Angela’s arm and dragging her into the crush of people.

Martin followed the girls, his height letting him catch a glimpse of their table on the other side of the room where Solórzano had rejoined Gunheim and Zhelen, and they, along with Kelly, the only UCLA team member he could see at the table, were focused with varying levels of interest on someone sitting at the end of the table. 

He could just make out the back of a sleek, dark head, and a spark of satisfied justification kindled in his belly.  It looked like Spock came to his senses.  Martin planned to be gracious, of course, and not gloat too much.  He was a little surprised that Caressa was so excited Spock had finally shown, but he had to admit, his roommate could have that effect on some women.  Men, too.  But Caressa hadn’t seemed like the type.

“So, there I was.  Passed out.  Naked.” 

Martin froze when the voice reached him over the clamor of the crowd.  That wasn’t Spock.  The speaker was far too animated to be Vulcan.  And too English.  As Martin neared the table, the speaker turned, giving him a clear view of blunted human ears and a striking, pale-skinned profile.  The warm place in his stomach shriveled, suddenly empty and hollow.  Where the hell had Charlie Spencer come from?

“I don’t know why I didn’t wake earlier.  Like when the crew was running around getting things ready for the matinee, or at least when they moved the bed onto the stage.  I must have been really bladdered,” Spencer continued, not deterred in the least by the arrival of three new people.  “I only remember waking up with this hulking beast of a Klingon towering over me, throttling the girl I’d been with the night before.”

“What did you do?”  Kelly, a quiet, serious girl who reminded Martin in no little measure of his missing roommate, leaned forward, her elbows on the table and more engaged than he’d seen her all night.  Must have been Spencer’s accent.

“Well, the only practical thing.  I leapt out of the bed in all my naked glory, screamed like a little girl, and ran.”  Spencer held his hands up to stave off the laughter that twittered around the table.  “I made it half-way home before I got arrested, which was some feat as it was the middle of the day.  I found out later it was some colossal joke a bloke from my club, who just happened to be playing Iago, concocted when he found me unconscious on the set.  He persuaded his fellow actors to run the strangulation scene once Othello got his makeup on.  Luckily, it was before the house opened, so there wasn’t an audience.  Just some scandalized old ladies in the churchyard I streaked through.”

The rest of the group laughed, but Martin squeezed his eyes shut and dug his fingers into the lids.  The last person he wanted to deal with was yet another member of the Oxford linguistics team. 

“Sounds like we missed quite the story,” Angela said as she pried herself out of Caressa’s grasp. 

Spencer rose to his feet.  “Caressa, and it’s Angela, right?  You’re both looking lovely as ever.  You too, Schroeder,” he added.

Martin shook the hand Spencer offered and searched for something to say that didn’t sound pissy.  “Thanks.  I wore this special for you.” 

“Charles!”  Any further exchange was thankfully lost in a cloud of hair and perfume when Caressa, who hadn’t stopped hopping up and down on her toes since hauling Angela back to the table, pounced, and Martin took advantage of the distraction to escape around the table and join the rest of his team. 

Solórzano was sitting with Gunheim, their fingers entwined and Solórzano’s head cradled against the smaller woman’s shoulders. 

“All hail the conquering hero,” Gunheim said, beaming and saluting him with her glass.  “I heard you just gave a master class in losing.”

“Shut up.”

“Don’t be so modest.”  Solórzano lifted her head, her eyes sparkling mischievously.  “It was glorious and very informative.”

He gave her his best flat stare, walked around her and Gunheim, and slumped into an empty chair, but Solórzano only grinned harder, and Martin could only shake his head at her and laugh.  “How long’s little lord fancy pants been here?” 

“About 15 minutes.”  Gunheim shifted and pushed Solórzano upright.

“And why’s he _still_ here?”

“Oh, he couldn’t leave before he got the chance to ogle Linguistics Barbie, could he?”  Gunheim’s tone was perfectly droll, and Solórzano giggled.  “It’s Caressa,” she sighed in a perfect imitation of the blonde.  “Anyway, Spencer’s not that bad.”

“Well, maybe I’m not in the mood to be nice to the competition.”  Or maybe he just wasn’t in the mood to deal with an arrogant jerk.  His irritation must have bled into his voice because Gunheim smacked him on the shoulder.

“Agreed.”  Zhelen leaned in, his voice pitched low.  The Andorian fixed Martin with a hard stare, his antennae twitching and alert and poured a glass of water from the pitcher in the middle of the table.  He pushed it over to Martin.

“See?” Martin said, wrapping his hands around the glass and nodding in thanks.  “It’s not just me.”

“It escapes me, but there is something about Mr. Spencer that strikes as…wrong.  He is unsettling.  Granted, he does fit within your western culture’s narrow confines of sexually appealing.  For males.  That may be why you both feel differently,” Zhelen said thoughtfully.

“I’m sorry.  What did he say?” Gunheim asked Solórzano. 

“That we think Spencer’s hot.”

“Nooooo.”  She shook her head, stretching the word out for emphasis.  “Theoretically, maybe.  But no.”

“The human tendency to willingly overlook personality deficits because of physical aesthetics is something that has always baffled me.”

“Excuse me.”  Solórzano turned to the Andorian.  “Weren’t you going on earlier about how attractive you are to humans?”

“I did not say it was not to my advantage, but I also take care to assure my actions are not misinterpreted.”

Solórzano laughed.  “Point taken.”  She leaned back in her chair and stretched, and her eyes focused on something across the room.  “Looks like a dart board just opened up.”

“I’ll grab it,” Gunheim said, standing.  “Get a game together.”

Solórzano looked at Martin and Zhelen expectantly.  “Well, boys?” 

“Yes.”  The Andorian rose to his feet.

Solórzano turned to Martin.  “Come on, Schroeder.  Don’t sit here and mope.”

Martin shook his head.  “After my stellar pool playing, do you really want me throwing sharp, pointed objects?”

“You’re right.  Don’t know what I was thinking.”  Solórzano scanned the table.  “Hey, Kelly!  Darts?” 

The other girl looked up, startled.  “Maybe you should wait for Heather or Dave?”

“They got eaten by the crowd at the bar.  We might never see them again.”

Kelly chewed at her bottom lip and then smiled nervously.  “Sure.”  She scrambled to her feet and squeezed around the table.

Martin poured more water.  He was careful to keep his hands steady, but water still sloshed over the rim of his glass.  At the other end of the table, Spencer had managed to extricate himself from Caressa’s grasp and was nodding absently, surveying the crowded room while the blonde girl chattered and giggled, oblivious to his disinterest.  He seemed to be searching for someone or something.

Martin shifted and took a long drink.  He couldn’t remember anything unusual about the Oxford team captain when he’d met him the year before.  He’d been likeable and often funny, even if he was a little puffed up and full of himself.  Sophie had said he was closed-minded and arrogant but hadn’t elaborated beyond that, and Martin had figured it was just because she didn’t like him.   

Still, he hadn’t given it much thought until he’d overheard Spencer in that strange little pub the night before the first round, quietly laughing with two guys Martin didn’t know over Tellarites smelling the way they did as a warning for blind people.  That kind of bigotry was still more common than Martin liked to believe, but it explained Zhelen’s reservations about Spencer.  The Andorian had finely tuned instincts when it came to judging human nature.

“Well mate, looks like we’ve been deserted.”

Martin jumped, the voice in his ear unexpectedly close and loud.  Spencer was sitting next to him, smirking and clearly amused.  The rest of the table was empty, Caressa and Angela having disappeared while he’d been in his own head. 

“What happened to the girls?” 

“Victims of the female herd mentality,” Spencer replied, jerking his chin in the direction of the bathrooms.  “So Schroeder.”  His tone just a hair too guileless to not set Martin’s teeth on edge.  “I was out making the rounds earlier, and I ran into Lansing.”

  1.   Of course.  “You have my sympathy.” 



“She was making a spectacle of herself with those two blokes from MIT.  The scary twins?”  He waited until Martin nodded and then continued, saying,  “I thought she had some sort of unholy assignation with you tonight.”  Spencer raised his glass, pausing before taking a sip.  “One hears things.”

Martin shrugged.  “Yeah, well, you know what they say about believing everything you hear.”

“Then I suppose you don’t care that she’s calling you a disloyal, puffed up wanker who can’t hold his drink.”  Spencer didn’t bother to hide his smile.  “How did she put it?  Oh, yes.  That when she pitched you over the side, you were already so pissed you couldn’t find your knob with both hands, let alone put it to good use.”

“That’s not what happened,” Martin muttered. 

“I’m just surprised to see you out.  I thought you’d be off licking your wounds.  And rightly so, what with the blow up with Lansing.  Oh, and your Vulcan underperforming today.” 

The other man’s clearly feigned sincerity made Martin feel a little sick.  Martin’s cheeks went icy cold as the blood drained out of his face, and his chest constricted.  He might not have been happy with Spock’s results or his behavior, but Spencer was being an asshole.  He had to have realized Starfleet was unbeatable, no matter how hard Sophie schemed or how stimulating Spock found her roommate’s…mind. 

“Putting our team in first place overall isn’t what I’d call underperforming.  And what happened with Sophie is none of your business.” 

“Fair enough.   But isn’t the point of having one of those walking, talking databases around to give you some unsurmountable advantage?  And yet, your supposedly superior alien was bested by a human girl.  My team’s girl, for that matter.  Doesn’t bode well for your chances going forward.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You can’t think you’re going to hold on to the top spot, can you?  The Vulcan clearly doesn’t care a fig about you lot, and he doesn’t give you any sort of a boost.  And then there’s you.”

“What about me?”  Martin took a deep swallow of water, as much to sooth his churning stomach as to quench his seemingly unending thirst.

Spencer settled back in his chair, as comfortable as if he were sitting in his own home.  “I don’t generally trust anything Lansing says, but I saw you pour that and nearly douse the table,” he said, gesturing to Martin’s glass.  He sounded almost gleeful.  “You’ve been gulping down water like it’s air.  Sure signs of a cut-rate detox, if you ask me.  When that wears off, you’ll be dazed and shaky for at least a day, and Lansing’s always in top form after she’s publically emasculated some poor sod.  I wouldn’t be shocked if she’d planned all this from the start.  She’s desperate to make a good showing.  You can’t possibly have missed that.  Your team’s going to founder, and it’ll be all your own doing.”

Martin’s heart thudded dully against his ribcage.  If sabotaging Spock had been part of Oxford’s strategy, he had no doubt Spencer would be happy to tell him about it in exhausting detail.  So this had to all be Sophie.  Or maybe…shit. 

He took another drink of water and swallowed down another wave of nausea.  He was an idiot.  It wasn’t Spock she’d been targeting.  It was him.  Spock’s having a thing for her roommate was just an inconvenient coincidence.  And now that he really thought about it, it wasn’t improbable that Uhura really had an itch for his roommate, too.  Enough girls did.  The Vulcan had a brain, and while Martin had no idea how Spock measured up by Vulcan standards, by human ones, he was a decent enough looking guy, if you were into pointed ears and bad haircuts.

Plus, he and Sophie had been emailing back and forth for weeks about getting together during the comp.  Plenty of time for her to figure out a way into his head, and he’d all but handed her a map inside with the way he’d reacted to Spock’s solo round score.  Shit, he’d been so worried about the Vulcan being played, he’d been oblivious that he’d been an even easier target. 

He inhaled, deep and slow, and let his breath out in one long, controlled exhale.  Panicking wouldn’t make the position he had put his team in any better.  He could only deal with it the best he could and try to bring them all out the other side in one piece, preferably without any of them finding out how stupid he’d been, although he supposed there was nothing he could do about Spock.  He resisted the urge to rub his eyes and focused on not looking as rattled as he felt.

“Speaking of your Vulcan, I haven’t seen him.”  Spencer sounded like he didn’t care, but his eyes stayed with Martin, watching for his reaction.  “Do they sulk?”

Yes, if Spock was any example.  They also walked off in snits. 

“No,” Martin replied, giving him a tight smile .  “And his name’s Spock.”

Spencer snorted.  “He’s Vulcan.  He doesn’t care.  He’s probably off trying to logic a way around coming second to a human.”

God, the man was a xenophobic jackass.  Of course Sophie had told him not to say anything about Uhura and Spock.  It had nothing to do with Spencer being possessive and everything to do with Spock not being human. 

Spencer must have seen something in his expression change because his easy attitude faded. “What?” 

“Nothing.  And you’re wrong.  About why Spock isn’t here?  He wouldn’t care whether or not you know his name.” 

“Enlighten me.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.” 

They sat, not speaking for a long time, and the silence was almost as loud as the din of the voices surrounding them, and it seemed to stretch on forever.  Hell, maybe he _should_ tell Spencer about Spock and his ex-girlfriend.  It was tempting.  He could just imagine Sophie’s reaction if Spencer became privy to what his ex-girlfriend was doing that night.  And it would serve Sophie right to get a taste of her own medicine.  Besides, it wasn’t like he’d be giving his team some unfair advantage, just restoring the status quo.

“Wow, leave for five minutes, and everyone abandons you.”  One of the missing UCLA girls, the redhead, Heather, plunked down two stacks of fresh glasses on the table in front of Martin with a loud clink, and he sat back with a start.  Talk about crappy timing.

Dave reached the table a minute later, carefully balancing two pitchers of beer.  “We were gone for more than five minutes,” she said as she placed them next to the glasses.  “It’s a zoo over at the bar.”

“Yeah.”  Heather collapsed bonelessly into the chair across from Spencer.  “We barely escaped with our lives.”

Dave sighed.  “Really?” 

“I might be traumatized for life.”

To her credit, Dave managed to keep her composure for roughly 10 seconds before giggling and joining them at the table.  Wrinkling her nose and grinning like she’d just won some sort of prize, Heather snagged a glass, poured some beer, and put it down in front of Martin.  “So, what are we talking about?” 

“Schroeder was just about to share what his team’s Vulcan is doing tonight, seeing as he clearly believes he’s too good for you lot.”  Spencer waved off the beer Heather pushed towards him, holding up his still half-full whiskey.

“Zhelen said he had a date,” said Dave and took the offered glass instead. 

“That’s right.  With someone from another team, I think?”  Heather took a delicate sip from her own pint and made a happy noise.  “I love English beer.”

“Zhelen?”  Spencer blinked and looked back and forth between the girls.

“The Andorian cadet?  He has a name.  Duh,” Dave scoffed.

Spencer’s explosive snort wasn’t so much a laugh as an expression of distaste.  “What girl would be thick enough to date a Vulcan?”

Heather and Dave gaped at him from across the table.  “A lucky one,” Dave told him.

“I was so jealous when Tholos told us,” Heather added.

Spencer’s gaze flitted from Heather to Dave.  “Why?” 

Heather’s eyebrows shot up nearly to her hairline.  “You don’t know?”  She turned to Dave.  “He doesn’t know.”

“We should tell him.”

“We should definitely tell him.”  The girls stared at one another for a beat and then Heather poked Dave in the arm.  “You tell him.”

“Well, one of you get on with it,” Spencer demanded.

Dave watched him, as if she were trying to figure out how seriously to take him, and then she pulled her chair in closer.  “Okay.  We’ve heard from a very reliable source –”

“Dave’s cousin, Lavinia –”  Heather broke in.

“– Vinnie – ”

“– Whatever.  She had some crazy affair with a Vulcan xenobiologist during her residency –”

“– The point is, Vulcans are dynamite in the sack.”

Martin smothered a grin, struggling to keep the beer he shouldn’t be drinking from dribbling down his chin at Spencer’s open-mouthed, bug-eyed stare.

The Englishman’s mouth worked soundlessly, and he started to say something more than once and failing.  “You’re kidding,” he choked out when he found his voice again.

“Dead serious.” 

“And what’s so great about them?  Go on.”

“Well,” said Dave, leaning across the table.  “There’s the stamina, for one thing.  Vinnie said they can do it four or five times in one night.  And before they have any contact with humans, they apparently do a full immersion study into the culture and physiology, including human sexuality, so they pretty much know _everything_ about how to get a girl off.  Or a guy, for that matter.  And the hands…”

“Yes, the hands.”  Heather banged her palm excitedly against the table.

“They’re supposed to be really sensitive, so they’re _very_ thoughtful about how they use them.”

“Don’t forget the telepathy.”

”Vinnie didn’t say anything about that.”

“Well, I heard from this girl in my statistics class that Vulcans use telepathy to make things more…fulfilling, if you calculate my vector.”

Martin hid his smirk behind his glass.  Not that he was any expert on Vulcan mating habits, but the girls didn’t know what they were talking about.  If any Vulcan Martin had met in his time in Starfleet studied human culture, they hid it brilliantly.  He’d asked Spock back when they were first paired up if he’d done any prep for living around so many humans, and the Vulcan said he hadn’t thought it necessary. 

“Sex?  With a sub-human?  That’s revolting.”  The color slowly drained from Spencer’s face, leaving him sallow and pinched-looking.  They were setting him up far more neatly than Martin could have managed on his own.

“It’s such a turn on, it makes my toes curl.”  Heather turned to Dave and nudged her.  “Remember that Xelation?”

“How could I forget?  How long did it take to treat that infection?”

“Two months.  I lost 18 pounds.”

“God, I was wiped.  My knees hurt so much I couldn’t walk for a week.”

“Should have had more condoms.”

“I really thought twelve would be enough.”

“Yeah.”

“But those tentacles…”

“I know.  So worth it.”

“Totally worth it.” 

The girls giggled together intimately until Spencer rapped his knuckles against the tabletop.  “Excuse me, do you think we might try to focus?”

Heather paused and blinked.  “Sorry. What were we talking about?”

“Vulcans,” Dave supplied. 

“That’s right.  Vulcans.  We’ve been trying to land a Vulcan since freshman year.”

“And Spock’s hot.”

“So hot.  And we’ve had all our shots for the Vulcan/human STDs, so there’s practically no risk.”           

“We’ve flamed out three times in the past four years, and this could be our last chance before grad,” Dave continued.  “We were hoping Spock might be up for a bit of…interspecies co-mingling?  So of course he’s not here.”  She turned on Martin.  “He’s into human girls, isn’t he?  I’d hate to ask and find out he only went for non-Terrans.  Or guys.  Although as long as he’s into humans, we could work with the sex/gender thing.  You know, bring in a pinch hitter who bats for both teams.  We’re flexible that way.”

“We’re flexible every way.”  Heather grinned. 

Martin wasn’t surprised by the question, only that it had taken so long for the girls to get to it.  Spencer studied his nearly empty glass with the type of single-minded focus that told Martin he was as interested in the answer as Dave and Heather.  “Yeah, Spock likes human girls.  Wouldn’t know about guys.  Maybe.”

Spencer grunted, but the girls twittered like a pair of birds. 

“Astronomical,” Dave said.  “If tonight doesn’t work out for him, let us know.  We’d love a shot.”

Heather straightened and looked around the table.  “Okay  Where is everybody?”

Spencer, still seemingly fascinated with the bottom of his glass, didn’t offer any explanation.  Martin waved in the direction of the dart boards.  “There’s a game going on.  And I think Angela and Caressa are in the bathroom.”

“Uh oh.”  Heather pushed away from the table.  “We should see if Angela needs any help.”

“Yeah.”  Dave stood and scooted around the table, followed closely by Heather.  “We’ll be back.”

“Try not to miss us,” Heather called over her shoulder before they disappeared into the crowd.

Despite the activity and constant buzz of the crowd around them, without the two girls, the table was almost peaceful.  Spencer glowered at the melting ice in his glass.  “I’ve never heard such utter tosh,” he grumbled and drained the remaining liquid.

“Yeah, pretty hard to believe,” Martin agreed.  He let the other man stew for a minute.  “They’re not entirely wrong, though.” 

Spencer set his glass down.  And picked it up again.  And then turned it around and put it down one more time.  “I wasn’t born yesterday.  I’ve been around enough Vulcans to know better.”

“And I’ve lived with one for four years.  Trust me, girls go for that no emotions shit.  Some guys, too.  They all want to be the one who puts the Vulcan in touch with his feelings.” 

Spencer gripped his nearly empty glass, his knuckles white, and shifted uneasily.  Almost there. 

“I really can’t explain it,” Martin kept his tone light, careful not to sound too invested, like he didn’t care whether Spencer believed him or not.  “I’ve seen girls do some pretty desperate things to get his attention, things you’d never expect, and I’ve never heard of one turning him down.  It’s like they’re under a spell…or brainwashed…or something.”

Not exactly the truth.  Actually, most of the stories circulating around the cadet corps had Spock turning down a series of increasingly bizarre propositions, not girls being powerless to resist him, but even those were probably the inventions of the grapevine.  He knew from experience that when it came to Spock, the least interesting version of any story was usually what had really happened.

“Well, luckily, girls here aren’t as thick as in the States.”  Spencer was starting to bluster.

“Really?”  Martin took an unhurried sip of beer.  “Because the last time I saw Spock, your ex was dragging him out of a bar.”

“My ex?”  Spencer’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. 

“Yeah.  You used to date Uhura, right?  Sophie begged me to set her up with Spock.”  Martin pressed his lips into a hard line to keep from grinning, but he couldn’t keep it out of his voice.  “You know, I would have sworn she was buttoned up tighter than the Orion syndicate, but she was all over him at the bar tonight.  I just hope they made it someplace private before she jumped him.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Hey, I’m just telling you what I saw.”

Spencer was quiet for a long time, and when Martin looked over at him, he was staring off somewhere across the room, muttering something that Martin couldn’t quite hear. 

“You okay?”

When he first turned on Martin, Spencer’s eyes were flat and cold, and then he seemed to shake himself without really moving, and his usual expression of haughty superiority returned.  “Why wouldn’t I be?” He rose to his feet, looking down at Martin without making eye contact.  “It’s getting late.  Make my apologies.” 

“Sure.” 

But Spencer was already stalking off towards the exit, his stride sure and fluid despite how rigidly he held his back and shoulders.  A drunken tourist wearing a Union Jack t-shirt and matching furry top hat blocked the door, but Spencer peered down his nose at the guy who scurried out of his way when Spencer didn’t slow down or change course. 

Once the pub’s exterior door closed with the Oxford captain was safely on the other side, Martin let out the breath he’d been holding, a pent up blast of air expelled from his lungs in such a rush, it left him feeling a little unsteady.  If he had to bet money on it, he’d say that while Spencer might have some doubts about what he’d just heard, he’d believed enough to knock him off balance. 

Without thinking, he took a deep draught from the beer he’d been barely drinking and was halfway through it before he remembered he shouldn’t be having any more alcohol. He pushed the glass away and closed his eyes and tried to ignore the way the room was starting to tilt. 

The detox he’d taken had gone dormant after it had burned off the alcohol he’d already drunk, but it would still be in his system for a good twenty-four hours.  The small sips of beer he’d taken while dealing with Spencer hadn’t been enough to reactivate it, but the gulps he’d just downed brought it roaring back to life.  Martin could feel it push his metabolism into warp drive.  His heart raced, and he felt more than a little light-headed.  And now that it was active again, it would burn through everything he had in him until the alcohol was gone, and if it ran out of fuel, it would start burning his blood sugar reserves and really mess up his adrenal system. 

He was thinking about going to the bar to see if they were still serving food when Caressa skipped up to the table with Angela in tow and Heather and Dave trailing behind them.  “Where’s Charles?” 

Caressa looked so disappointed, Martin almost felt bad Spencer wasn’t there.  “He just left.  He didn’t say why, but he said he was sorry he couldn’t stay.”

“Oh, pooh.”  The blonde flopped into a chair where she slumped with her arms folded over her chest, her bottom lip pushed out and a comically sour expression on her face.

“Oh, pooh?”  Martin leaned over to Angela, who had settled down beside him.

“She thinks swearing is déclassé,” she explained.  “Her words, not mine.”

Caressa straightened and stared them both down.  “He was supposed to be my ‘Yay, I don’t have to do this anymore’ present.”

“We’re not out yet.”  Heather reclaimed her seat across the table and topped off her abandoned glass.

“What?  No!” Caressa squeaked.  “Davina!”  She spun towards Dave, who was just sitting down. 

Dave shrugged.  “Sorry.  Oh, wait.  I’m not.”

“Well, you should be.  I was going to sleep in and everything.”   Caressa sank back into her chair with a huff, her lower lip protruding even further, if possible.

Heather rubbed her shoulder.  “We don’t have to be there until 9:30.”

“Stop,” Caressa wailed.  “You’re just making it worse.”  She dropped her head to the table and burrowed into her arms. 

“Is she for real?”  Martin whispered to Angela, and her shoulders shook with the effort it took to keep from laughing.  He got the distinct impression that her amusement was with him and not her distraught teammate.

“Please.  This is why we have her around.  She’s sweet and fun, and without her, we’d just be five women studying the same subject.”

Martin glanced at the other girls.  Dave stroked Caressa’s hair while Heather whispered something to her, and Angela watched them, a fond expression on her face.  He didn’t know how Kelly fit into the dynamic, but the girls all seemed to genuinely like one another.

He looked over to where his own teammates were playing darts.  Solórzano and Gunheim seemed to be arguing while Kelly giggled at them.  Zhelen, as usual, was mediating whatever the conflict was.  Sometimes he wondered how the girls had managed to negotiate any sort of relationship before meeting the Andorian, but somehow, they’d managed for more than two years.   

His team was really great, even Spock, no matter how unreasonable he was being, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed spending time with them.  Maybe his single-minded focus on winning the Invitational was off-base.  Maybe he should be less concerned with coming out on top and focus on the people who were supposed to be his friends.  Because once he got his commission at the end of May, it could be years before things let up again.  For all he knew, it might already be too late to salvage things, but he was going to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to anyone just discovering this thing of mine and thank you to everyone for your great comments! I'm so excited that people continue to enjoy this.
> 
> Sorry about the delay in this chapter. Real life has taken a toll these past two weeks, and it's probably not letting up until the end of the year. Being responsible is way overrated. Except for the part where your life doesn't fall apart. 
> 
> This chapter was one of the scariest to post because up until this point, I could have done a lot of different things. Now there are certain things that have to happen in order for it to all come out in the end. It's a little intimidating to start on the downhill portion of something, and I spend a lot of time worrying that I won't be able to handle the giant leap at the end. Oh, well. Too late to turn back now, so the only way to go is forward.
> 
> And for anyone worried that Martin's on some sort of a redemption arc, I think it's way too late for that. It's just that people are complicated and they're not just EVIL.


	19. Chapter 19

Intercourse with the female in the superior position was rarely Spock's preference. But now, with Nyota straddling him, his  _lok_  deep inside her, and their bodies moving in concert, he could think of no logical reason for this. It had been his intention, even as she moved above him, to reverse their positions once she found her pleasure, but as her sexual response cycle peaked, that plan dissolved.

Her movements were growing increasingly erratic. The mewling, unguarded sounds she made each time his fingers stroked her sensitive  _ko-lok_  eroded his physical controls and pushed him closer to  _va'sanosh_  with every exquisite jerk of her hips. He tightened his grip on her thigh and thrust more deeply into her, his rhythm becoming relentless and driving.

Nyota's climax, when it came, was sudden and almost violent. She trembled, and her back arched and her hips bucked against his, her whole body quaking. Her eyes were squeezed tight, as if she were blocking out any extraneous input to better focus on the sensations coursing through her, and if not for his inability to fully shield himself from the echo of her pleasure, he might have thought her in agony from the pinched expression on her face.

When her  _keshtan-ur_  tightened and pulsed around him, he finally allowed his physical restraint to drop away. Her short, sharp gasps became strident as he dug his fingers into her hip so that he could grind into her more forcefully and increase the friction between them. Anything to ease the tension that was coiling more and more tightly in his  _sakal-sa'haf_  and pelvis. Nyota's inarticulate vocalizations only made his movements more desperate as his building pleasure became almost unbearable. When the pressure finally snapped, the  _va'sanosh_  seared through him, turning his thrusts convulsive and deep.

Gradually, their movements slowed, and Nyota slumped towards him, her forehead pressed against his shoulder as she gasped for breath. And then she pushed herself upright and smiled. It was small and uncertain at first, then widened until it suffused all of her features. Her laughter was unexpected, even to her it seemed, because her eyes grew large, and she clapped her fingers over her mouth, as if she could recall the bright sound. Her happiness with him, with them, seeped into him every place their bodies touched. In that moment, she was the most beautiful thing Spock had ever seen.

He was cognizant that Nyota's heart rate, sluggish by Vulcan standards, was elevated above human norms, as was her breathing, and even though both were beginning to return to their baseline now that their frenzied motion had stopped, he took significant satisfaction that those heightened responses were his doing.

Fascinated, Spock brushed his fingers over her lips and across her cheek, and when she turned her face into his palm, her eyes never leaving his, his mind reached for hers without any conscious intent or volition on his part and was only stopped by the walls he had so carefully rebuilt earlier that evening. But that light touch did not fulfill his lingering need for her, and he slid his hand into her hair, gripped the back of her neck, and pulled her down. Nyota was still smiling when he kissed her. Her mouth was cool and moist, a contrast to the sensation of dry heat that bled from her mind into his.

He tightened his arms around her and drew her closer, even as he put further mental distance between them and focused on maintaining his equilibrium. While it occurred only infrequently, he was a strong telepath and could sometimes sense the surface thoughts of others under far less intimate circumstances and with only the barest physical contact. With her body pressed against him, his  _lok_ still inside her and not yet flaccid despite his recent climax, some transference was inevitable. Separating from her physically as well as mentally was the most logical course, but he found he did not want to and compromised by ending the kiss and pressing his face into her hair.

Nyota shifted, and an aftershock of pleasure jolted through his body. His hips jerked reflexively, and he ground against her, his hands clenching against her back, his mouth open and gasping against her neck. He forced his body to relax again but did not loosen his hold on her. Nyota's breath was soft against his ear and pleasing in a way he was having difficulty describing, and he settled her more firmly against him.

"Spock?" Nyota moved again, and he felt her strain against his arms as she tried, unsuccessfully, to push herself away. "Could you let me up? My knees are starting to hurt."

Spock felt his chest constrict when he realized his mistake and released her. "I am sorry." His words came in a rush. "I—"

"It's okay," she sighed and rolled away from him, groaning as she straightened her legs. "You couldn't have known."

Her relief was a palpable thing, too immediate to ignore, and he turned onto his side to watch her stretch. He itched to touch her, but with the way her back arched and her legs slid against one another, he suspected he would only become aroused again. With the hour growing late, just past midnight, she would need to sleep for optimal performance during the next round of the Invitational later that morning, and he did not wish to push her.

When Nyota looked over at him, his reticence seemed well justified. Her eyelids were drooping, and her smile, though just as bright as earlier, came a little more slowly when he pushed the hair that fell across her cheek behind her ear.

"Do you wish to sleep?" His question brought an even wider smile, and Nyota eased closer and kissed him.

"Soon," she said, nudging him onto his back so she could pillow her head on his shoulder. Her fingers drifted over his abdomen. "Not ready yet."

"Do you wish to engage in further conversation?" In his experience, it was not the preference of human females to lay together in silence following the cessation of sexual activities.

"No."

"But—"

"Shhh…"

Spock suspected it was to his benefit that Nyota did not wish to speak as she was tracing most distracting patterns across his chest and stomach, and he doubted his ability to focus sufficiently on a discussion of any complexity. But if she did not wish to converse and did not wish to sleep despite her obvious fatigue, he was uncertain how to proceed. Perhaps she was satisfied with simply maintaining their physical contact.

Her breathing deepened, and her heart rate slowed, even as her body temperature warmed in response to his proximity, but her fingers kept moving along their slow, swirling path, and he pulled her closer. Her touch was light. Teasing. Gentle.

"Sated," he said, almost to himself. The pieces had put themselves together in his mind so gradually, the answer was there almost before he had known there was a question. The slow, circling movements…she was writing. On him. In Vulcan calligraphy. "What is the purpose of this?"

Nyota's lips curled against his shoulder. "No reason, just how I'm feeling. I was wondering if you'd figure it out."

"The majority of non-native speakers do not know the formal script; although I was aware that you had some proficiency."

"Mine's not perfect. Nowhere close, but it's so beautiful, I keep working at it. What about this one?"

The design she sketched out over his skin changed to something more staccato and abrupt. By the time she had repeated the sequence a third time, Spock recognized the word she wrote as Risan. "Contented."

" _Zhanshut_ ," said Nyota as she traced the word down his side again, and when she reached his hip, she stopped and raised her hand to cover a quick yawn before starting a new pattern just under his navel.

Spock closed his eyes to better focus on the way her fingers drifted over him. Trying to envision in his mind the symbols she drew on his body was a fascinating exercise in perception. This time, her fingers moved in long, smooth lines.

"Deltan," he said, his voice soft and low. "Pleased. You are pleased."

" _Julem_." Nyota twisted and propped herself up on her elbows so she could see his face. "Yes, and I am.

"You know," she whispered when he said nothing, "I almost didn't go tonight."

"You did not?"

She shook her head. "I was frustrated with Sophie for butting in, and knowing her, I wasn't sure you hadn't been forced into it, too."

"Because I did not contact you directly."

"Got it in one. But then I was afraid I wasn't clear about why I gave you my comm code. And I still wanted to see you, so…"

"So you accompanied Ms. Lansing despite your apprehension that my participation may have been coerced."

"Yes. I figured that even if we didn't have anything else in common, we could have at least talked about that."

Spock reached out and stroked his fingers along the contour of her jaw, but a vague dissatisfaction took root in his mind. While he continued to be confident that the reasoning behind his decision to not contact her earlier that day had been sound, that he had caused her to doubt his interest regardless of his intent was unacceptable.

"Had Cadet Schroeder and Miss Lansing not interfered, I would have requested your company tonight. I continue to find many of the expectations of human social interaction perplexing, and my judgment in these matters is not always correct. Failure to communicate with you regarding your preferences was an error on my part, and for that, I apologize."

He held Nyota's gaze for a long moment and then she ducked her head, a gentle smile playing over her lips. Her hair slipped forward over her shoulder and fell across her cheek, and Spock found himself tucking the heavy strands behind her ear again.

"It's okay. You don't have to—"

"I believe I do. The fault for this is mine."

"It's all right," she said and stretched her arm around his body and cuddled in close to his side. " _Nam-tor ri thrap wilat nem-tor rim_."

" _Julem sh'ar._ "

"You are pleased," Nyota translated.

Spock looked down at the girl curled against him, his fingers absentmindedly twining into her hair. Her cheek was pressed against his shoulder, and even though her eyes had drifted closed, her fingers had resumed tracing over him.

"You are writing again."

She smiled but did not open her eyes. The figures she drew were straightforward, almost disinterested, and Spock recognized the word almost immediately. It was neither crude nor salacious, which could explain why the term was not widely used by non-native speakers, but it was frankly sexual. He had suspected that was her opinion of their activities, but it was deeply gratifying to have it confirmed, even if desiring such reassurance was illogical. He was still considering that when her fingers moved across him a third time, and placing his hand over hers to still it, he said, "Trader's Tongue."

"You know the word?" Nyota craned her neck around to look at him.

" _Gev'telem'h_. There is no precise Standard equivalent given the cultural specificity of the term. Although, exhaustion following a particularly satisfying sexual climax is an adequate approximation."

"That's close, but there are other nuances, too," she said and dropped her head back down and stifled another yawn.

"I am aware." Spock allowed himself a small smile and pulled her closer as he considered the word's deeper, more emotional meanings: Relief that a first encounter had been pleasurable. Desire for further intimate contact in the future.

Nyota's skin was still tacky with a thin layer of sweat, and the scent of her body was even more pleasing to him now than previously. Still, his physical desire for her had eased appreciably, leaving a just as compelling yearning to know her better. The word was, perhaps, an understatement. "While not entirely accurate, I believe the word is appropriate."

"I love that about language, though. As imperfect and inexact as it is, society after society finds that kind of common ground." Nyota resumed her idle movements, slowly skimming her fingers over his shoulder and down his arm. "Should I keep going?"

"How many languages do you speak?" While her knowing how to write and pronounce isolated words from numerous languages was not evidence of fluency or even an elementary knowledge of those languages, over the past two days, Nyota had demonstrated an exceptional affinity for language.

"With fluency?"

"Yes."

Her eyes were drooping closed, and her voice was becoming thick, betraying her fatigue. "Terran or non-Terran?"

"Both."

"If you count each distinct dialect as a separate language, five Terran and fourteen non-Terran." Nyota stretched and turned away from him, her head still cradled against his shoulder.

"And yet you are studying mathematics and not linguistics."

"Math's soothing. It's practical and logical. And it's really just another form of language," she said. "Besides, speaking nineteen languages won't help me with the Starfleet entrance exams as much as being able to calculate the coverage of an interspace relay will. Do you mind if I lower the temperature?" Her last words were close to unintelligible as she fought another yawn.

"I do not."

"Good. Computer, resume Uhura Environmental Program 5."

Spock remained motionless even as the room immediately began to cool in response to Nyota's command, still ruminating over what she had told him, not only about the surprisingly large number of languages over which she claimed mastery but her desire to enter Starfleet. Although their association had been brief, he would have expected the subject of Starfleet to be broached sooner given his status as a cadet if a career in service was truly her intent. "Why have you not spoken of this before?"

"The temperature?" she asked, her voice holding the same warmth as when she laughed.

"No." He looked down at her for a moment, but she only gave him a slow smile, and Spock found it difficult not to respond in kind. Instead, he gently pulled his arm out from under her so that he could free the sheet and duvet from the space between the mattress and the footboard of the bed where they had been shoved earlier that night and drew them up to cover them both. "You are aware that my intent was to inquire further about what I presume is your aim to join Starfleet."

Nyota pressed back against him when he settled behind her. "I've been wanting to ask you about the Academy, but there hasn't been a good time."

"Are you too fatigued to discuss this now?" Spock kept his voice low so as not to seem too insistent. Nyota did not answer him, but drew his arm around her, entwining their fingers. It was probable that she would be asleep soon, but now that his curiosity was fully roused, he could not let her be. "Perhaps we could speak about this tomorrow after the competitive round. I have not had the opportunity to see the city or university and would value your company."

"Okay," she sighed, and her breathing deepened. "Hmmm, you're warm."

"Vulcan physiology disburses body heat more efficiently than that of humans. This is not uncomfortable for you?"

Nyota shook her head. "S'nice. S'like being home." Her fingers grew slack between his, and Spock pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

"Lights off," he instructed the computer, and after they dimmed, he closed his own eyes, drew in slow, measured breaths, and used the steady, soothing rhythm of Nyota's heart beating against his chest as a focus to clear his mind and slip into the initial stages of meditation with more ease than he had since coming to Oxford.

-oOo-

Spock could not recall falling asleep, but when his eyes snapped open at the bleating of his communicator, it became clear that he had, regardless of need or intent. His internal sense of time told him it was 0246 hours. However, he was uncertain exactly for how long he had slept. It was disconcerting.

Nyota had pulled away from him at some point, but her ankle was caught between his, and her forehead rested against the side of his shoulder, her hands curled loosely around his arm.

Carefully, so as not to wake her, Spock untangled their legs and pulled his arm from her grasp so that he could ease off the bed and address the incoming communique as quickly as possible without disturbing the young woman who slept beside him.

Crossing the dark room to where his jacket was draped over the desk chair, he pulled his comm out of the interior pocket. Commander Parker's ID blinked up at him, and he was momentarily stymied as to what to do. He could neither ignore her nor delay his answering his comm until he was clothed. If Nyota's roommate were not home, he would have stepped into the hall, but there was too great a chance that Miss Lansing would hear him and investigate the sound. While he had no desire to awaken Nyota by conducting a conversation in the same room while she slept, it was clearly the only reasonable option when viewed objectively.

Spock stepped deliberately to the other side of the room in an attempt to put as much space between himself and the bed, flipped his comm open, and spoke quietly. "Spock here."

"Cadet, are you at the hotel?" Parker's tone was brusque.

"I am not. It was my understanding that we were released from curfew requirements for the duration of our stay. Have I misinterpreted?" Although he kept his voice pitched low and even, Nyota began to stir almost immediately. He had apparently underestimated the sensitivity of her hearing.

"No," Parker replied. "But a situation has arisen that requires immediate attention, and I need your assistance."

"Spock?" Nyota's voice was slurred and sleepy, and she rubbed her eyes and slowly sat up. Her form was indistinct in the dim light from his comm, but he could see her blink and push her hair away from her face.

"A moment please, Nyota."

"Cadet, where are you?" Parker demanded.

"Lights at 25 percent." Nyota's command was rough with fatigue and nearly inaudible. The duvet pooled around her hips, and her hair curled over her shoulders, partially, but not completely obscuring her breasts. She was no less beautiful now, rumpled and disoriented, than she had been during their earlier couplings, and Spock was momentarily mute watching her.

"Cadet!"

"My apologies, Commander," said Spock, turning his attention back to his communicator. "I am not at the hotel, but I am no more than ten minutes away by foot."

"Is something wrong?" Nyota whispered. She pushed the bed coverings away and slid over to the edge of the mattress where she scrubbed her at her eyes again and yawned.

"Good." Parker's relief was audible, even to Spock. "I'm transmitting the coordinates of the local police precinct. Your teammates have gotten themselves into a bit of trouble with local law enforcement. I've already arranged their discharge, but the authorities are unwilling to release them without the presence of a superior officer."

"Commander, I do not wish to state the obvious, but I am not a superior officer." Spock switched his comm to speaker, set it down on Nyota's desk, and began to dress.

"Are you being deliberately argumentative, Cadet?" Parker's voice had taken on the pressured tone that Spock generally associated with anger or frustration in humans.

"No, sir. I merely point out that a fellow cadet is likely not what the police are expecting."

"The duty officer, a Sergeant Fahrid, was willing to be flexible when I told her you were Vulcan," she explained. "Go get your teammates and escort them back to the hotel. I'll be there no later than 0600 hours."

Spock fastened his trousers and pulled his undershirt over his head. "Understood, Commander."

Parker paused but did not disconnect. When she spoke again, her voice had lost some of its edge. "Cadet…Spock…If I've interrupted something, I'm sorry.

"Understood. Spock out." He terminated the transmission and sat to pull on his socks and boots. During the conversation with Commander Parker, a vague heaviness had crept over him and settled in his chest, where it became gradually more pronounced as he prepared to take his leave.

Nyota watched him silently from the side of the bed, now alert and seemingly fully awake. "What happened?"

"I am uncertain as to the circumstances, but the other members of my team are currently in police custody. Our commanding officer has arranged for them to be released to me." Spock paused, one sock on and the other held loosely in his hand. "I must leave."

Spock busied himself with the fastenings of his boots. He told himself that he was only hurrying his departure and not avoiding looking at Nyota. He did not see her rise, but the rustle of the sheets and the soft sound of her feet padding across the floor told him she was no longer in the bed as surely as if he had watched her.

But she did not approach him. Instead, she walked to the dresser and started to remove various items of clothing. "Give me a minute to get dressed. I'll walk you downstairs," she said as she tugged on a pair of dark leggings.

"That is not necessary."

"It actually is necessary. It's part of the building's security measures. You don't just need a resident to get in the building. You need one to get out, too." Freeing her hair from the neckline of the bulky, too-large sweater she had pulled over her head, Nyota crossed to the wardrobe and removed pair of fleece-lined boots from inside.

Spock moved to smooth his hair in the mirror over the dresser and then reached for his jacket. "That is an unusually hazardous approach to security."

"It's a lawsuit waiting to happen." She stepped into the boots and then folded her sleeves back so that they no longer covered her hands and turned. "I'm ready."

He did not respond immediately but sealed the front of his jacket and closed his eyes for a moment to center himself. Breathing deeply and quieting the part of his mind that urged him to take her back to bed, a familiar sense of calm settled over him. Leaving her was not his preference. There was no shame in that. But there was nothing to be done about it.

No, Spock corrected himself. There was still something he could do. "Nyota, our plans to meet later…"

His voice faded when her brow knit together in a way that seemed to indicate she was displeased, but then she blinked and any disquiet he might have seen in her features had disappeared. "I guess the situation with your team changes things."

Spock studied her in the dim light. Her posture had become stiff, and her arms were clasped tightly across her chest. She raised her chin, her mouth hardening into a firm line. She was preparing for him to revoke his request for her company. He was as certain of this as if he had pulled the information directly from her mind.

Although he did not understand what he had done to lead her to that conclusion, Spock knew she required reassurance that it was not the case. "I do not see that it does. I have done nothing to warrant a restriction on my off-duty hours. I merely wished to determine a place to meet.

"Oh."

"As Starfleet is likely to complete the next round before Oxford, I will remain in the hall until you have been released, if you have no objection."

Nyota dropped her head and smiled. "You're right. Speed is not our strength. Why don't I meet you at the bottom of the main staircase when we're finished?"

"That is acceptable." He gave the hem of his jacket a final tug and opened the bedroom door. "I must leave."

"I know." She walked past him into the living room, and he followed, gathering his overcoat from the hooks by the door and settling his hat on his head.

They descended the stairs in silence, but Nyota kept glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, and Spock had the distinct impression that she was expecting…or hoping…for something from him, although he was unable to discern what. When they reached the ground floor, he stopped in front of the keypad that controlled the door, effectively blocking her access and trusting that if he could have a bit more time, he would be able to determine her wishes. But enlightenment did not come, and the bright look in her eyes faded a little when he did nothing. But then she stepped in close. His heartbeat stuttered at the way she leaned towards him, the way her fingers brushed against the inside of his elbow, barely detectible through his layers of clothing, but she only reached around him so that she could press her hand to the keypad and open the door.

Even though the night had grown overcast, the weather remained dry, which was preferable given how the temperature had decreased since he and Nyota had walked to her home. He found the cold more difficult to tolerate when combined with rain, and he tightened his scarf around his neck.

"Do you have directions to the station?" Nyota asked.

"My commanding officer has transmitted the coordinates. It will not be difficult to locate."

"Good."

The information Parker had provided indicated that the station was 1.29 kilometers by foot. If he left immediately, it was possible that he could secure the release of his teammates and conduct them to the hotel by 0345 hours, which might allow them to sleep for a time before being required to face the Commander's censure. But instead of leaving, he stopped on the first step and turned back to Nyota, uncertain what to do but wanting…something.

She still stood on the landing just outside the door, which had clicked quietly closed behind her, her arms wrapped around her body and her breath condensing into white vapor. She was visibly shivering.

"Nyota, please go inside. You are dressed inadequately for the temperature."

"Just let me make sure you head off in the right direction."

Spock hesitated again, not sure why he remained. As he worked to understand his own motives, Nyota's expression shifted from what he recognized as anticipation to something softer, and she moved closer and stroked the placket of his overcoat. "You should get going. I'd hate for Oxford to move into second place because you couldn't get your team out of jail."

Spock nodded curtly and adjusted his hat before he headed down the steps. She was correct. He needed to collect the other members of his team. The rigidity in his shoulders as he walked away from her was of no consequence. The manner of their parting had been satisfactory. Nyota had heard Parker's orders, and she understood his departure was of necessity, not preference. It would have been illogical for her to ask him to ignore those orders, to attempt to convince him to stay. He should not have desired that she try. Nor should his heart rate have quickened at the sound of light footsteps running after him down the street, but it did.

"Spock, wait." He turned just as Nyota reached him. Before he could react, she raised up on her toes, twined her arms around his neck, and kissed him until he was breathless. Her mouth was soft and full of promise, and the tightness across his back eased. "I wish you could stay."

"As do I, but it is not possible," he replied regretfully and pulled her arms from around his neck. "I will wait until you are inside."

She nodded and walked slowly back to her door, looking back at him over her shoulder, giving him one last glance when she reached her door before she ducked inside.

Spock stayed, watching the windows of Nyota's dwelling unit, the only ones illuminated on that side of the square, until they went dark. Assured that she was secure within her home, the last of his tension faded leaving only contentment. He allowed himself the space of a heartbeat to enjoy the sense of calm and then turned and strode purposefully in the direction of the police station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vulcan Anatomy Lesson (courtesy of the Vulcan Language Dictionary)  
> lok - penis  
> ko-lok - clitoris  
> va'sanosh - immeasurable pleasure (there is apparently no word for orgasm or climax in Vulcan, so I made something up)  
> keshtan-ur - vagina  
> sakal-sa'haf - testicles
> 
> Other stuff I made up - every other non-Terran word.
> 
> So, just a few quick notes. With this chapter, I'm now caught up to where this whole thing is over on fanfiction.net, so instead of updates pretty much weekly, the updating for this will slow down considerably after next week, which is when I plan to post the next chapter. I'm actually pretty pleased with how it's shaping up. It's off for beta right now, and I'll probably futz with it some more after it comes back. I only have about four more chapters written, and all horribly in need of rewriting, and I am working on finishing the complete first draft as we speak. So if I want to maintain the quality, I have have to slow down on the updates.
> 
> Second, hi and welcome to anyone just finding this. I hope you enjoy the rest of what's coming. I appreciate all of the comments and kudos more than I can ever say. I really do love hearing what people think. I hope everyone is having a terrific weekend and early fall!


	20. Chapter 20

Charlie hadn't believed Martin Schroeder when he'd told him Nyota had taken – god help him –that Vulcan home with her. Hadn't believed it at all. At least, not entirely. He swallowed, and peered up at the dark windows of the flat Nyota shared with Lansing. Steeled himself against the shudder that rattled through him. The brisk night air must have somehow wormed its way inside the heavy, insulated fabric of his coat. Except he didn't feel cold. Numb more like.

"Stop." The command was barely audible, breathed out on a puff of white vapor. Stop everything, he told himself. Stop thinking about the girl he'd dumped for good reason. Stop obsessing over what she could possibly be doing with some cold-hearted automaton. And for god's sake, stop hiding in the bushes outside of her flat. What was he even doing there? He should just go home. But his brain stubbornly ignored his whispered order.

Schroeder had to have been making it all up. Even with her limited experience with men and penchant for the pedestrian, Nyota was far too smart to think that some cold-blooded, arrogant, sub-human could give her a decent rogering. And so what if she did or had somehow heard and, god forbid, believed that utter bosh about psychedelic Vulcan mind-sex. She still wouldn't be interested.

More than anyone, he should know. When she'd been with him, he'd barely been able to coax her into lifting her skirt for him outside of the bedroom, let alone agreeing to anything truly interesting.

That conventionality had been the main reason Charlie'd pursued her in the first place. Or pursued her beyond that first impulsive shag after that party where she'd been dancing far too provocatively to ignore with one of her girlfriends, getting progressively tipsier as the night wore on. Not so drunk, mind you, that she hadn't been capable of turning him down. Nearly had after he'd invited himself up to her room, and she'd insisted on spending the better part of an hour pouring over his health cert. That same unyielding sense of propriety had frustrated him to no end when they'd been together, but it made her appetites predictable, at the very least.

And he couldn't think what a Vulcan would want a girl for, anyway. Or if he'd know what to do with one once he had her.

No, Charlie had almost dismissed the idea entirely the second Schroeder had mentioned it.

Except…

The memory of Nyota covering that work screen in those incomprehensible scribbles Vulcans called writing tugged at him. That and how that smug, pointy-eared bastard had stared at her from down the aisle. It had been an all-too-common occurrence in their relationship, finding her absently scrawling all manner of bizarre hieroglyphics across her PADD only to wipe them away when she realized he was watching. He'd always assumed she was being considerate, that she knew how unimaginably frustrating he found her mindless doodling, but in retrospect, she'd only been hiding it from him. Hiding herself from him.

He wasn't even certain how many non-human languages she knew. Hadn't asked. Hadn't really wanted to know any more about her unnatural obsession than necessary. Still didn't. But other than that one regrettable idiosyncrasy, Nyota had seemed like the perfect choice to shore up his public image after an ill-timed incident in the pool at a resort on Risa involving an American socialite, a pool float, and a marked lack of swimwear. All of which, unfortunately, had been witnessed by a high-ranking diplomat from the Arbazan system who was attending a Federation trade conference at the same hotel. Damn prudes.

Still, it paid to be careful, so the first thing he'd done after leaving Schroeder in that travesty of a tourist trap masquerading as a pub had been to call Eddy, his father's PR girl. His, too, not that the honorable Lord Spencer gave him any choice in the matter.

Control over the information about his life that reached the media was vital, as was not directly contradicting his father's publicly held positions and platforms, although he'd made a concerted effort to distance himself from the old man's more problematic opinions. Using Eddy had been the only option.

Who, of course, hadn't answered, not that he'd expected otherwise. Fortunately, he wasn't the one paying her, but that also meant he never came first. He'd thought about summoning his driver. But the night was cold and mercifully dry, and the brisk air always helped clear his head, so he'd started walking. He'd wandered the streets of the city center, no specific destination in mind, endlessly checking his comm for a response from Eddy that still hadn't come, until he'd found himself tucked behind a bush in the garden square across from Nyota's flat, stewing.

He'd commed Eddy twice more while he'd lurked around in the brush, ducking deeper into the branches every time he heard footsteps or voices, but like his first call, he found himself shunted to her answer queue. Typical. She was never available when he needed her, but Eddy knew her business, and as a registered public figure, one with an ambitious and visible planned career trajectory, having a competent publicist was a necessary evil.

not that the honorable Lord Spencer had given him one.

In the first decades of the 21st century, most of humanity had gleefully thrown away any sense of personal privacy in a frenzy to embrace the time's advancing and evolving technology's new interconnectedness. People documented every second of their lives for daily public consumption in pictures, vids, and words. Knowing what a neighbor or classmate or even a total stranger on public transport had for breakfast had been as simple as checking the continuous feed broadcast over their personal network.

But the stringent security controls imposed over both private information networks and those of the media during the planet's last great global war and the slow, halting climb out of the nightmare that came after, changed all of that. Society rediscovered the freedom of not living in a proverbial fish tank.

When Earth's independent nations began to join together under the banner of a united planetary state in the early 22nd century, the security regulations that almost every government on the planet had instituted were finally lifted, and the world had to adjust to a renewed and increasingly intrusive media presence. Restrictions on where and when the press could pursue a story and about whom it could report, combined with press agencies monitoring and policing themselves, wary of further regulation and the usurping of the tasks of news gathering and reporting by those whom they saw as amateurs struck the balance.

Eventually Earth, like the majority of advanced intergalactic societies, developed a professionalized press corps with strict education and licensing requirements, ethical rules, and internal monitoring boards. When you added the legal privacy protections afforded to the planet's inhabitants, including restrictions from recording or photographing private persons anywhere and even registered public figures in "No Media Zones" or any other place where they had a reasonable expectation of privacy, the average person could enjoy as near complete control over how they were perceived by the world as it was possible to have.

Still, it wasn't hard to become a public spectacle. There were still any number of unethical gossip outlets, and plenty of people were interested in the fame and notoriety that a public life, poor behavior, and a well-run publicity campaign could bring. It was as simple as registering your status as a public figure and hiring the right publicist.

Of course, for someone in Charlie's position, public life wasn't about vanity, as it was with so many of the empty-headed nits running around, fighting for media scores and air space. His future career in service to humanity demanded it, and he lived as if every move he made outside of his townhouse was under public scrutiny. Never mind that most purely residential areas, every part of the University, and the majority of commercial businesses were designated "No Media Zones" with the monitoring and blocking systems to make unauthorized transmissions more trouble than not.

Lansing was always nattering away at how her barmy mother's paranoia had rendered the square her flat was on a virtual dead zone when it came to illicit recordings and transmissions. While he'd never seen so much as a blip on any of the gossip sites about any of the goings on in the square despite a number of high profile residents, there were far too many amateurs out there willing to violate regulations to make a few credits and far too many disreputable publications and agencies willing to face possible legal sanctions and professional fines to publish a juicy enough story regardless of the source for Charlie to feel comfortable anywhere in public. He hadn't been so cautious right after he'd entered the public sphere, and he'd learned the hard way after the Risan scandal two years before. He wasn't about to make the same mistake twice.

With his family's importance, he couldn't be too careful.

He was jerked out of his thoughts by a distinct rumbling against his chest, and he groped for the interior breast pocket of his coat for his comm. Eddy's ID blinked up at him from the screen. Thank god.

He snapped the device open and growled as quietly as he could manage, "You certainly took your bloody time getting round to me."

"Oh, ducky." Eddy spoke with the barely-contained fondness of someone who'd known him for far too long, which she had, given that she'd been an all-but permanent fixture in his family for nearly a decade. "You're lucky I didn't leave it till later. It's nearly three in the morning, your father's charity event ran late, and I'm exhausted. This is the first second I've had all night. He says 'hi,' by the way."

Charlie snorted. No matter how well she did her job, he was tired of always coming second, but his father… Clearly the old man was having it off with her, not that Charlie cared. Eddy was rather fit for a woman just south of 40, and his mum was, well, his mum. "You're lying."

"Of course I am."

"Didn't you listen to any of my messages."

"I did." She sounded distracted, like she was in the middle of something and not really paying attention. "But I'm having trouble believing you're in this much of a tizzy over your ex-girlfriend going on a date."

Charlie huffed and tried to speak slowly and keep calm despite his rising irritation. "With a Vulcan."

"And?"

"What do you mean, 'and?'"

Eddy sighed, a resigned, weary grumble that he'd heard far too often, although usually directed at his father. "You're really making too much out of it. I've told you time and again, you can't let this sort of thing get to you if you want to have a prayer of holding any planetary office."

"My father – "

"You're father holds a hereditary seat in Parliament that's mostly ceremonial, and if you were satisfied with that –"

"Which I'm not."

"— which you're not, you wouldn't have to worry about it. But you've said, since the day I met you when you were 13, that you want a place on the Federation Council, and there can't be so much as a whisper of your not being able to work cooperatively with other species. You've got to get better at masking your distaste for non-Terrans."

"Do I?"

"Yes. Someday, someone is going to overhear the wrong thing, and it'll get out, and then what?"

Charlie was quiet, and when he didn't respond, Eddy kept going, her voice become sharper and louder as she settled into lecturing him, one of her favorite things to do.

"Now listen. Nyota Uhura is not your girlfriend anymore, although you know I think that was a mistake. She's a nice, ordinary girl from a nice, ordinary family who did wonders for your reputation after that nonsense you got yourself into on Risa, but you broke it off months ago. Now, much to my shock, you've managed to craft a very cordial, mature relationship with her since, and that's gone a long way to boost your public image, and I will not let you ruin it by going off all argy-pargy. Do you understand?"

Charlie stared down at his comm, not speaking. He hated being scolded, and he didn't want her to be right. But she was. The same way she'd been right about Nyota being just the trick he'd needed after the Risan scandal. Pretty enough that no one would question his interest in her. Smart enough to keep him on his toes, and normal enough to make people write off his past exploits as youthful indiscretion. And his father had approved of her, a minor miracle. Of course, his father hadn't known about the language thing. And neither of them had known about the Starfleet thing. Nyota had waited until the end-of-term dinner with his parents to drop that little tidbit.

Shame, really. She'd been so skittish, so uncertain about seeing him in the first place, he'd had to invest more time into her than with any other girl he'd dated before. And he'd made a lot of sacrifices to make things work as long as they had. A lot. Nights at his club. Parties, or at least the ones worth going to. Other women. Anything that would have put her off if she knew about it. Eddy would have skewered him for anything but his best effort.

He'd never planned to maintain his self-imposed monogamy more than a month or two, however long it took Nyota to let her guard down. He could be terribly discreet when it was called for. But the way she'd looked at him, smiled at him, her dark eyes soft and unguarded. And the way she'd turned almost all of their conversations back to him. His goals. His aspirations. Him. Like she couldn't wait to know everything about him. Her seeming fascination had been intoxicating, and in the end, he'd been faithful for all the months they'd been together, his longest period of monogamy since he'd first discovered girls.

But Starfleet? He could accept that she had a hobby, even a strange and distasteful one like her enthusiasm for that alien jibber jabber, but her career plans made it clear that she'd never place the needs of humanity above those of the Federation, not an ideal quality for the future wife of one of United Earth's representatives to the Federation Council. He hadn't known until that moment he'd considered her worth marrying, and that blow had struck him dumb and left him momentarily dazed. Charlie prided himself on being more progressive than his father, but that had been asking too much. And even then, it had taken some urging from his father for him to end things that night.

To her credit, she'd taken it well. A little too well for his liking, and he'd been torn between feeling relieved she hadn't made a scene and offended she hadn't been more upset. When Lansing had insisted she be a part of the team for the Invitational, he'd had doubts they'd been able to work together, but she'd been so sweet and reserved. He'd been convinced she'd wheedled Lansing into including her so that she could try and win him back, get him to change his mind. Well, everyone had to have a dream. He'd even been considering starting things up again. Casually, of course, and not exclusively, certainly.

And then Schroeder had to go and make him doubt her again.

"Charlie!"

Eddy's voice was sharp and too loud, and Charlie started. "What?" he sputtered.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes," he managed to hiss out between clenched jaws, but if Eddy noticed his agitation, she didn't let on.

"Good. Now, what are we dealing with? Was she parading him around in front of you?"

"No."

"Were they carrying on inappropriately in public?"

"I don't know. Probably not."

"What do you mean, 'probably not?'"

"I didn't exactly see them."

"So they weren't even out in public?"

"No, they were at a bar. And they probably walked through town. She might have him in her flat right now."

"But you don't know."

"Her windows are dark."

There was complete silence from the other end of the line and for a second, Charlie was afraid the connection had been lost. Or Eddy had hung up. When she spoke, her voice was flat and exhausted. "Please don't tell me you're skulking around outside her flat."

"I'm not skulking."

"Go home."

"But –"

"The only thing that girl has ever done that's been even moderately interesting to the press is date you, and since you broke it off, she's been scrupulous about maintaining her privacy status and not attracting attention. Whatever's going on, I doubt we'll see any fallout from it. Go home. Now. I'll talk to you after you've slept it off."

Charlie had never heard a deafening silence before, but the oppressive quiet that enveloped him when Eddy cut off the transmission seemed to vanquish all other sound until there was nothing else, not even the bare branches of the trees in the garden square rubbing together in the wind that was slowly picking up or the rustling of the leaves of the bush he still crouched behind.

Eddy was right. Again. Standing outside his ex-girlfriend's flat in the frigid cold for the past two hours watching windows that had been dark since his arrival was ridiculous, and none of it changed the fact that he needed to get at least a few hours of sleep.

Best thing to do was go home and wait it out.

He was pulling his comm back out of his pocket to call his car when the flat lights snapped on, and everything slowed to a crawl. His heart suddenly felt very heavy and very large and entirely in the wrong place, pounding away in his ears.

The lights could mean any number of things. Maybe Lansing had brought those berks from MIT home with her and was throwing the poor sods out after they'd served their purpose. Nyota sometimes had problems staying asleep and didn't like sitting in bed when she could be doing something more productive. At least, that's what she'd always told him when she'd disappeared from his townhouse in the middle of the night. Or maybe one of the girls wanted a glass of water or something else from the living room or kitchen.

Charlie slipped further into the shadows at the edge of the garden square, cautiously parted the branches that blocked his view of the building, and held his breath.

He stared at the flat windows, willed the light that shone through them to turn back off, but it didn't. Instead, the lights continued to burn, and after a few minutes, the building's entry door swung open. A tall figure dressed head-to-toe in dark red stepped outside followed by a slender, dark shape in a too-large jumper.

Even if he hadn't been able to see Nyota's face in the building's bright exterior light, he would have recognized that ugly fisherman's knit anywhere. Starfleet red could only mean one person since he'd left the rest of those Federation blighters back at the pub. He swallowed and shook his head, trying to clear his field of vision which had narrowed alarmingly, dimming at the edges.

Lord Spencer had a longstanding theory that Vulcans could not only read minds but control them as well, at least to some extent, and Charlie knew many of his father's contemporaries subscribed to that thought as well. But he believed it was simpler than that.

From his own studies in interplanetary relations, Charlie had long-suspected that Vulcans were the worst of the lot when it came to acting strictly in their own self-interest. History was filled with countless examples of how the Vulcan contingent of the Federation Council withheld vital information to further its own agenda to the exclusion of all else, and it seemed that the more vehement the opposition was to a given proposal, the more likely it was that it would be adopted.

His theory was that Vulcans were dangerously persuasive and, with the unrelenting way they twisted and tortured the facts in the name of "reason" and "logic," an opponent to an idea could be convinced that a change in position was based on their own thoughts and conclusions and not Vulcan deception.

What was it Schroeder said? That he'd never seen a girl say no to that green-blooded freak? That girls seemed to find him irresistible? That he could get girls to agree to things they'd never do otherwise? The whole idea was so absurd as to be unbelievable, but it didn't touch why those dozy bints from UCLA had been so eager to get their hands on a Vulcan.

Not that he'd spent much time on it, but he didn't think those walking glaciers had sex drives. They obviously reproduced; the Vulcan population was almost as large and prolific as Earth's. Maybe it was all done in a lab somewhere, without the inconvenience of physical contact. That would explain the size and reach of the species despite their having no discernable sexuality,. But what if it was something else? Something those damned machines kept hidden? Secret?

The pair on the steps spoke quietly. Too soft and too far away for him to hear what they said, but Charlie could see Nyota's eyes shining, and her expression was one he knew well. It was the look she got when she was happy and excited. In the year and a half they'd known one another, he'd seen it frequently for any number of reasons: A favorite song. An intense debate. A particularly well-timed cup of coffee.

A block of ice slowly formed in the pit of his stomach. She'd hardly ever bestowed that look on him, and he'd begun to resent even the weather when a sunny day warranted that kind of reaction and he didn't. He didn't want to think about what the Vulcan had done to deserve it, but his brain kept picking at it like a scab.

At the pub quiz the night before, after looking down his nose at the first opponent who'd tried to shake his hand, that cold-blooded freak had reached for Nyota's without hesitation even though it hadn't been offered. At first, it had seemed like an attempt to intimidate or unsettle her, and Charlie'd had a good chuckle at the thought of anyone getting to her when he hadn't been able to.

Charlie knew from experience that Nyota was particularly strong-minded. On that first night, she'd insisted on reviewing his entire health cert, even though he'd already had her skirt hiked up around her hips and his own trousers undone.

But she'd read the whole thing. He'd been fairly positive after all that, she was going to back out, except that by the time she'd finished, he'd been crouched between her knees, his head up under her skirt, her knickers tossed somewhere over his shoulder after he'd shimmed them off of her, tipping the velvet, as it were. The way she'd gasped and squirmed, he'd been shocked she'd been able to focus on anything, and even after she'd given him the go ahead, she'd still insisted he use a condom. He'd asked her once if that had been what persuaded her to see him again, that he could be trusted, and she'd told him that she'd never thought he could be.

He'd laughed at the time, but looking back, it was perhaps the only unguarded answer she'd ever given him. No, Nyota wasn't the kind of girl to be talked into anything she truly didn't want, no matter how much it looked as if Lansing led her around by the nose. If she'd brought the Vulcan home, it had been all her idea.

And she certainly didn't look like she'd been coerced. Just the opposite, in fact. Nyota looked just like herself, in the same oversized pullover he'd seen her wear at least a dozen times, except brighter. More alive, somehow.

Lansing would have never let her go for drinks dressed that way. So she'd changed clothes at some point, but for what? For comfort? For warmth? Or was it the first thing she'd thought to grab when she'd needed to put her clothes back on? He'd thought better of Nyota, but the way she was dressed and the way she looked, tumbled and far too relaxed, he'd seen that look before, too. Had been the reason for it enough times to know she'd spread her legs for that thing.

Charlie clenched his hands into tight fists, stilling their quaking. Every part of him that didn't scream for him to wrap his fingers around that, that…sub-human creature's neck and wring the last breath out of him urged him to shake Nyota until she understood exactly how much damage she could do to his public image if the tabloids found out his ex-girlfriend, the one with whom he'd briefly considered reconciling, fucked something that wasn't human. And a Vulcan to boot. The only way it could have been worse was if it had been one of those piggy Tellarites.

His train of thought was disrupted when Nyota moved closer to the Vulcan, touched his chest and said one last thing before the alien turned and walked away, giving Charlie his first clear look at his face since he had stepped outside. His expression was impassive, unreadable. Nyota stared after, her lower lip caught between her teeth, clearly upset at his leaving without any sign of regret or remorse.

It would serve her right if that unfeeling block of ice didn't so much as acknowledge her the next time she saw him. Charlie felt the first crack in the cold that had crept throughout his body, and he bit back the laugh that came as he pictured the distraught look on her face when that inevitably occurred.

"Spock?" Nyota's voice was loud in the otherwise quiet street, and Charlie slowly pulled aside a leafy branch that blocked his view. The Vulcan hadn't gone more than five metres, and now he stood on the pavement, turned back towards the flat. His expression was still and lifeless.

But Nyota wasn't put off because she jogged down the steps and up the street. Charlie's stomach tightened and forced the sour taste of bile into his throat as he watched her follow that inhuman thing like a gormless puppy scampering after its master. And then she was wrapped around him, kissing him as if her life depended on it.

But that wasn't what disgusted Charlie most. It was the way the Vulcan responded to her. Charlie would have called it longing or maybe even passion if the creature had been human. But Vulcans were heartless. Soulless. Without emotion, his actions were nothing more than a grotesque parody of human behavior, and the worst kind of manipulation. It couldn't be anything else.

Charlie kept the contents of his stomach down by sheer force of will as the pair slowly separated and spoke briefly. And then Nyota went inside. Even though the Vulcan didn't take his eyes off her as she walked away, his face was blank, and his eyes were dead. Still, he waited until the flat lights finally went out before he turned and exited the square.

Charlie's heart beat a sickening tattoo against his ribs. She'd kissed the creature. In the middle of the street where anyone could see. Where a media drone could have easily recorded everything, or one of the square's residents or anybody walking by, zoning, privacy restrictions and EMP shields be damned.

He stayed frozen in place for a long time once the square was empty, and when he finally lost the battle with his gut, he retched into a nearby bush as silently as he could manage. Then he sunk to the ground, turning what he'd seen over and over in his mind, so numb the frigid earth beneath him didn't even register. Eddy needed to know. He needed to contact her right away. She'd know what to do. How to control the situation. How to give it just the right spin in case the whole business got out.

And more than anything, he needed to go home. Charlie dragged his comm out of his pocket with fingers so numb he nearly dropped it in the grass twice before thumbing the summons for his car. He'd call Eddy once he was safely on his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was longer than expected and was a total bear to wrestle into submission, not unlike my girl cat when you try to give her medicine, which we've been doing all week due to a sudden bout of gastritis. I hope this is okay because the content of this chapter stresses me out like nothing else. Charlie's head is not a pretty place to spend time. But his has been part of this thing since I first imagined it, except that Charlie actually got in the building and started pounding on the flat door before things ever got going, and there was no skipping it. We'll get Nyota's take on the whole relationship in a couple of chapters.
> 
> Okay, the bad news is that this is now totally caught up to FFN, the last nine or so chapters are going to post a lot more slowly. I've still got about four chapters left to write, so at least once I have first drafts of those, the posting speed will pick back up, so keep your fingers crossed.
> 
> Anyway, a big hi to anyone going through this for the first time and thank you so much for all the wonderful comments and kudos. I'm hoping to have the next chapter up in a few weeks, and until then, I hope those of you who celebrate Halloween have a wonderful one. I'll be answering the front door wearing my wizard robes.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to get this updated. This chapter nearly killed me, but at least it's a substantial one. I'd also like to apologize that having not updated in something like seven months, this is a Martin chapter. I mean, you all wanted to know how Martin and company ended up in jail, right? Spock comes in near the end, but Uhura's sitting this one out. The good news is it's Martin's penultimate appearance. He's in one more scene after this, but it's small. I hope it's worth the wait.

Cooling your heels in the small hours of the morning in an English jail was even less appealing than it sounded.

To Martin, it felt like he and his teammates had spent the better part of the night on the wrong side of the flimsy, civilian-grade security barrier that marked the doorway to the holding cell at the Oxford police station waiting for Commander Parker to come and ride herd over them back to the hotel.

Parker. Shit. He didn't want to think about what they were all in for once she got her hands on them. If they were lucky, she'd at least defer the inevitable lecture so they could all get a few hours of sleep before the competition later that morning. Unless she pulled the team out altogether and took them home.

Ignoring the way the room lurched to the side when he stood, Martin stalked over to the front of the cell, his heart pounding as hard as if he'd just sprinted a 10k without the benefit of four years of Starfleet physical conditioning. He pressed his palm to the clear wall separating the cell from the processing area. The surface had none of the familiar iciness of the transparent aluminum used in the manufacture of starship ports, but it was still cool and smooth, and he leaned his forehead next to where his hand rested and tried to keep from gasping for breath.

Parker couldn't cut the competition short. She couldn't do that to him…them. The shaky breathlessness was as foreign and unfamiliar to him as the plastic feel of the front wall of the cell and the uninspired, utilitarian room beyond it. Parker wouldn't make them go home now. She couldn't.

Shit.

Maybe if he wasn't so fuzzy on how the fight that had landed his team and the girls from UCLA there had started, he wouldn't feel like ripping his hair out of his head. Except other than Caressa, Zhelen was the only one who seemed to know the whole story, and the Andorian wasn't talking. He just sat on a bench as far away from the door as he could get, slumped over in exhaustion or defeat or maybe humiliation and not looking at or talking to anyone.

Martin didn't blame him. While UCLA and the rest of the Starfleet team had been crowded into the stark, gray-walled holding cell, Zhelen had been dragged off by the officer in charge to explain…what? How three groups of visiting students ended up brawling in the middle of a public street? At least they'd put those morons from Penn, who had to have started the whole thing, someplace…else, he didn't know where. He'd lost track during processing. Hopefully some dark, dank, dungeon-like cave. Someplace with weeping stone walls and rats the size of dogs. Maybe in shackles.

After what had seemed like hours, Zhelen had finally been escorted to the cell. He'd pushed past Martin, who'd been lurking right inside the entry since the containment field across it had crackled and sparked into being. His hands had been shoved deep into his pockets, and his shoulders and antennae both curled inward so that the normally expansive, cocky Andorian looked small and subdued. He hadn't spoken at all. Not when Martin had followed him to the back of the cell peppering him with questions, and not when the officer who'd accompanied Zhelen had announced they weren't being charged with anything.

The tension keeping Martin on his feet had bled out of him, an infection rotting just beneath the skin finally sliced open. He'd collapsed against the wall in relief, his legs momentarily too weak to support his weight, but that blissful sense of bonelessness had been short-lived. Barely before the officer had finished speaking, he'd pushed back onto his feet and rushed to the front of the cell to quiz the man about when they'd be getting out. They weren't.

Not yet.

The teams' respective advisors had been called in to ride herd over them back to their hotel, and no one could go until they got there. Which meant Parker was going to expect some reasonable explanation about how they'd ended up in the clink, and Martin was clueless about what had actually gone down. Without Spock, he was the ranking cadet. How was he supposed to explain anything to Parker if he had no idea what had happened?

For a second, he was tempted to march over and shake Zhelen. Demand he explain what happened, but Zhelen was hunched over his knees on the bench he'd claimed, aggressively ignoring everyone. Still, pulled inside himself. Still leaving Martin totally in the dark.

No one could misinterpret that body language. Martin settled for pacing back and forth along the transparent wall at the front of the cell and tried to dredge up any remnant floating around his brain that would tell him how the fight had started.

Not long after the dart game had broken up, they'd all left the pub together, his team and the women from UCLA, and headed back to the hotel where they all were staying. If nothing else, that memory was clear. Zhelen and Caressa had lagged behind, whispering and laughing together, the Andorian determined to cheer the blonde girl up after Spencer's sudden exit.

Martin hadn't paid too much attention to them other than making sure they didn't fall too far back. He hadn't thought he'd needed to. He'd been talking to Angela, who on top of being pretty in a way that was delicate and yet sharp and aggressive, was smart and funny. She'd grown up in Los Gatos, only about ten minutes away from his parents' house, and they knew a lot of the same people, it was a small miracle they'd never met before.

The sounds of a scuffle had intruded on their conversation, and by the time he'd turned around, a full-on brawl had been raging behind them. Reacting mostly on instinct, he'd jumped into the middle of the fray and dragged Caressa off the back of some poor guy wearing a Huskies jacket and a red, white, and blue beanie. Zhelen could hold his own in a fight easily, but surprisingly, so could Caressa. But the guy she'd jumped? Not so much. She'd been hitting him over and over again on the head with her purse, one of those miniscule things girls complained never held enough to be useful but carried anyway, and doing a surprising amount of damage.

By the time the police broke things up, Gunheim, Heather and Dave were involved, and things had gotten out of hand, mostly because of Caressa. The girl fought dirty, not paying any attention to who she hit or why. More than once, she'd clipped Martin in the side with a flailing elbow or kicked him with a pointed, high-heeled shoe when he'd gotten too close. And because he'd been trying to herd her away from the main fight, certain Gunheim and Zhelen would be able to deescalate things if he could take Caressa out of the equation, he'd always been too close.

Martin was less than effective as a herder. On top of being fast, Caressa was fearless, and she'd slipped around him at least a half dozen times, usually flinging herself at the first person she saw. By that time the cops arrived, she'd inadvertently assaulted him so fiercely and so often, he'd almost thanked them for the intervention.

He was going to have a very interesting set of bruises when he woke up. If he ever got to sleep.

Coolly and efficiently, the two officers who'd arrived shut everything down as quickly as it'd started. Well, except for Caressa. Even after the fight ended, the blonde had still flailed at anything that moved, and Heather and Dave had clamped on to her, pinning her arms and legs to keep her from charging again.

If not for the way Caressa had wrenched herself out of her teammates' grasp to take a final swing at one of the guys from Penn when he'd waggled her tongue at her, they would have gotten off with a stern warning. Martin barely managed to tackle her in time to keep the whole thing from starting all over again, this time with the cops standing right there. .

Once they'd been crammed into the back of a van for transport to the station, even Solórzano, Kelly, and Angela who'd stayed on the sidelines, Martin tried to pry out some sort of explanation about how things had started, but Zhelen had been too far away to talk to, bustled in at the front of the van while Martin had been crowded into the last row of seats between Heather and Dave. Caressa was no help. She'd started whimpering in the transport, and by the time they'd shuffled inside the surprisingly modern holding cell, her half-hearted sniffling turned into full-blown tears. She'd fallen onto the bench Kelly led her to with a heavy thud and buried her face against the other girl's shoulder, a sodden, miserable presence in the too-small space. Martin kept a careful distance from her once it became clear she wasn't going to tell him anything, but her voice carried, and she'd been damned difficult to block out.

"I'm sorry," Caressa hiccupped, her words muffled by Kelly's heavy sweater. "It's all my fault."

Martin spun in the girls' direction. Angela was murmuring something that sounded soft and soothing, but the blonde girl's voice choked off, and she only sobbed harder.

Stalking over to where the girls sat, Martin stared, waiting for a break in the deluge of tears. When it didn't happen, he finally blurted, "What does she mean, it's all her fault?"

Kelly glared at him over the top of Caressa's head, but any weight that look might have carried was lost, engulfed as she was in the other girl's tangle of bright curls. He was about to ask again when Angela caught his eye and shook her head. "Later," she mouthed, soundlessly. The look she gave him had a sharpness to it that warned against further comment and yet still managed to be gentle and kind. It was that, more than anything, that kept him from pressing the matter.

"God," Heather sighed from the next bench where she'd bunched up her own sweater to use as a pillow. "So you got in a fight and got thrown in jail. Big deal."

Caressa pushed away from Kelly, her face screwed up like she could start bawling again at any second. "I promised my dad I wouldn't get in any more fights."

"What?" Dave asked from her position next to Heather.

"Don't encourage her," prompted Heather.

"No, we have to hear this. You promised your dad?"

Caressa inhaled, a loud, soggy sniffle. "Yeah." She looked around the cell, her cheeks reddening as every eye in the cell fixed on her. Well, every eye except for Zhelen's. "I have a younger brother. He used to get picked on a lot at school. Someone had to protect him."

"Well, I thought you were amazing," said Kelly.

"I'm sorry." Caressa scrubbed at the tear tracks trailing down her face and glanced around.

"Amazing," repeated Kelly.

"Yeah," agreed Dave. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. You rocked."

Heather yawned. "Speaking of rocks, what's up with the quarry in your purse?"

"Oh, I've been picking up rocks for Kyle."

"Your brother?"

Caressa nodded. "For his collection. He doesn't have any English rocks, yet."

"But why so many?"

"I don't know what makes a good rock."

"Oh, you're hopeless."

"And way too loud," added Dave.

The blonde took an unsteady breath and looked like she might hold it together, but then she whimpered and started bawling again. Heather groaned and pulled her sweater over her ears while Dave let her head sink back against the side wall of the cell and closed her eyes. Martin retreated back to his position near the entry to the cell.

The officer manning the desk, Sergeant Stoller, a rotund, silver-haired man with the bright, eager eyes of a kid on the first day of summer vacation, was speaking quietly on his comm. Martin crept as close to the energy field barring the cell door as he could without shocking himself, but the hum from the field and the hysterics going on behind him, drowned out anything he might have otherwise picked up. Too bad Spock wasn't there. With his preternaturally sensitive hearing, the Vulcan would at least have been able to hear everything, even if it meant being on the receiving end of yet another lecture about decorum or foresight or any one a dozen topics Spock always had ready.

At least they weren't being charged with anything. That could have been disastrous. And not just because he hadn't received his post-commissioning orders yet. It could jeopardize Solórzano's assignment to the Concord. Gunheim and Zhelen each had one more year before active duty, but something like an arrest could follow them for years. Parker could still have them disciplined, a black mark on their records they'd all carry with them into their service careers.

Martin's laugh was a harsh bark forced from his throat. He'd been so rattled when he'd thought Spock was distracted because of a girl, but right now, he'd be grateful for that to be his only problem.

Irony blew.

He sank back against the wall next to the barrier and rubbed his eyes and temples. His head was starting to pound. Probably another byproduct of the low-end detox he'd used; no extended release analgesic. When they got back to the hotel, he'd ask Parker for something stronger out of the Fleet-issue med kit she no doubt had with her.

Stoller snapped the comm terminal off and turned back to the work on his screen, but Martin rapped his knuckles against the wall.

"Excuse me. Sergeant?" he called. "Are there any updates?"

Stoller shrugged. "Sorry, that was about the ladies. Their chaperone's here. We still haven't heard from your CO yet."

"Sure." Martin nodded. "Can you try to contacting her again?"

"You lot are lucky it's a slow night. Otherwise, we wouldn't have had time to get this whole business sorted." Stoller rose and strolled over to the holding area, a tentative smile on his lips. "My nephew's a crewman on the Fornacis, and I don't want you in more trouble than you've already got. We've had to report you to your CO. You don't want to do anything else to aggravate her. Give it some time; it's only been a half hour."

"Yeah, okay," Martin finally grumbled while Stoller returned to the desk. It wasn't bad advice, especially not after the lengthy sermon about public decorum and sportsmanship and leading by example Parker'd aimed at him the day before they'd left for Oxford.

For a second, he was tempted to put his fist through the barrier. He didn't think the energy field was strong enough to do any real damage, but you never knew. Based on how things had gone so far, it probably had enough juice to land him in the hospital, and instead, he scuffed his toe along bottom edge of the boundary, watching it darken and shimmer each time his boot made contact.

"Was that about Larry?" Dave asked, her eyes blinking slowly open.

"Who?"

Heather sat up and yawned. "Dr. Suarez."

"If that's your advisor, he's here," Martin answered, shoving down the building resentment twisting in his gut at his team meeting up with the girls at all. Who knew if they'd even be in this mess if it hadn't been for them? And now they were leaving first.

"Oh, no! Larry's here?" Caressa squeaked. Her head snapped up from where she'd still been sobbing into Kelly's shoulder, and her eyes darted around the cell and the room beyond it.

Dave stood and stretched. "Don't look so panicked. It means we're getting out."

"But Larry –"

"Will be proud," Dave interrupted.

"Yeah," Heather agreed, her voice muffled as she pulled her sweater back on over her head. "Remember what he said to us before we left?"

Caressa sniffed. "That we weren't having enough fun and that we should go out and do something that could get us thrown in jail?"

"Guys, I don't think he really meant that," said Kelly as she squeezed the blonde's fingers.

"Of course he did." Heather pulled her long, red hair out from underneath her collar and walked over to Caressa. "He'll probably want a holo to commemorate it."

"No!" The blonde girl's voice rose in pitch, elongating the word into a howl.

Dave cast her eyes up to the ceiling and stalked past Heather to the clear front wall of the cell. "Nice. She'd finally stopped whining."

"Hey!" Caressa squeaked, the word echoing off the walls.

Kelly surged to her feet and glared up at Dave, the other girl so tall she had to crane her neck to meet her eyes. "That's not fair."

"But it's true."

"Stop!" Angela's voice boomed over the brewing argument. "Everybody just stop. If Larry's here, that means we're getting out of here, and until then, Caressa will stop crying. Heather and Dave will stop being mean—"

"Hey—" Heather retorted.

"— Kelly will stay out of it." She glared at each of her teammates in turn, looking every inch in complete control of the situation even though she was the only one still sitting down. "And if Dr. Suarez wants us to pose like grinning fools in front of the station, we'll do it. No complaints. It's the least we can do for dragging him out of bed in the middle of the night and getting us early enough so we can get some sleep."

The other girls immediately quieted, none of them looking at her or each other, and Heather mumbled what might have been an apology in Caressa's general direction. Martin couldn't decide whether he was jealous of how readily her team followed her instructions or by her easy confidence.

"Well, well, well. Don't you all make a fine picture?" As one, the members of the UCLA team froze, their only movement the way all of their eyes darted towards the man standing on the other side of the security barrier about to either explode with pride or twirl the end of his droopy, gray moustache. His ill-fitting, ancient tweed jacket with its patched elbows and knotted buttons of what-had-to-be-simulated leather barely hanging onto the front placket by threads, and baggy, brown trousers made the man appear more caricature than person. He might have looked so haphazardly thrown together because he'd been dragged out of bed in the middle of the night, but for all Martin knew, he could be the exact same jumble at ten in the morning after a full night's sleep.

"Although," the man who had to be Dr. Suarez continued, "not as fine as one of you all posing outside the station. Thank you for the suggestion Ms. Fisker."

"No problem," Heather replied as she dragged Dave towards the entrance to the cell where Inspector Farid, the officer who'd spoken with Zhelen after their arrival, waited for Sergeant Stoller to lower the energy field securing the holding area.

"You heard that?" Caressa squeaked. She sank slowly back to the bench.

"I heard plenty. But we can discuss this later, after we've all had some sleep. Now say goodbye to your friends, so we can all go home."

Kelly aimed a half-hearted wave to the corner where Gunheim and Solórzano had retreated not long after they'd been escorted into the cell and scampered after Heather and Dave to stand with their advisor. Only Gunheim returned the gesture because Solórzano had managed to fall asleep, propped up between the wall of the cell and the other girl. Angela pulled Caressa to her feet and gave her a gentle shove. Not hard. Just enough to get her moving, but even as she shuffled towards the cell entrance, the blonde girl looked over at Zhelen, still curled over at the back of the cell. "Just one second."

Caressa hurried over to Zhelen and whispered something. Martin couldn't hear what she said, but the Andorian glanced up and nodded, and she smiled and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before skipping past Martin and Angela and out of the cell.

"What was that about?" Martin asked.

"I have no idea." Angela patted his arm and edged towards the door. "See you tomorrow. Maybe. If you guys ever get out of here." And she turned and was gone, along with the rest of her team.

Without the girls, silence dropped down over the holding area, broken only by the crackle of the energy barrier penning his team inside the cell. Still hard asleep, Solórzano's head drooped forward at an uncomfortable angle, and Gunheim was gently repositioning her. Zhelen hadn't moved again after Caressa's unexpected goodbye.

They were fine. So long as they got released before dawn, his team would be fine. They were all capable of performing under high stress with little or no sleep. Starfleet was the perfect training ground for that particular skill set.

He dropped down onto a bench, across from where Solórzano was sleeping on Gunheim's shoulder, and leaned his head against the wall. The cool metal surface soothed the pain and throbbing in his temple, and the rhythmic thrum of the building's mechanical systems, so similar to the ever-present drone of a starship's engines, leeched the tension out of his back and shoulders and lulled him into closing his eyes.

At some point, Martin must have drifted off because he was dreaming about a snowstorm when he started awake, his heart racing and his eyes popping open. Zhelen sat next him. The Andorian leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and glared at the floor. His antennae were tense and flattened against his head, and his hands flexed together.

"Hey." Martin rubbed his hand across his face, dragging it down over his mouth and chin to covertly check for drool. "You okay?"

Silence

Martin waited. He had time. It wasn't like they were going anywhere yet. Zhelen wouldn't have come over if he wasn't ready to talk, no matter how agitated he still seemed.

"So, what was that thing with Caressa?" That seemed easy enough.

His teammate let out a slow, careful breath and finally spoke. His voice was harsh and low, and Martin had to strain to hear him. "I told her I would send her a rock from Andor's Northern Wastes for her younger brother."

"Oh." Given how cozy Zhelen and the UCLA girl had been on the walk back to the hotel, he'd expected something else. Something more. Not that it was any of his business and not that he was surprised. The Andorian knew pretty much every female cadet on campus if the few times they'd crossed the quad together were anything to go by, and there were always whispers and rumors about Zhelen's romantic escapades, even if he denied every one of them. Maybe… Martin studied his teammate, his head bowed so low, the Starfleet symbol carved into the shorn hair at the back of his head starkly visible. A bright, blue beacon. Maybe, despite all that, he had no idea how human girls thought. "Okay."

His doubt must have shown because Zhelen sat up and looked at him. "What?"

"Nothing. It's just…girls, huh?" Martin shrugged. "Sometimes they read too much into things."

"I know many human females," Zhelen replied, his tone curt. His antennae had only relaxed marginally and were jutting out to the side of his head. "Probably more than you, and I am well familiar with how actions can be misconstrued or misinterpreted. Rest assured, this was something she and I discussed, and we share a preference for members of our own species in matters of sexuality."

"Sorry. It just seemed like she might have thought there was something more."

"I have lived among humans for nearly three years, and your species' tendency to see sexual overtones in every exchange between unrelated individuals, and sometimes related ones, confounds."

Martin opened his mouth to protest and then snapped it closed. "Is that what happened?" he asked quietly.

"We were in front of that bar with the music playing outside, and Caressa knows how to waltz."

"Ah." Zhelen was a member of the Starfleet Academy Dancesport Team. He claimed the anthropologic implications of ritualizing an aspect of courtship and mating, one that didn't have a parallel on his own planet, was intriguing, but word was, he was really good at it. Any opportunity to dance would have been irresistible. "So those guys we tangled with, they preferred the tango?"

A smile crept slowly across Zhelen's face, and he chuckled quietly. "Yes, everyone's a dance critic." He sat up and leaned his head against the wall. His antennae drooped. "We were just dancing, and they acted like we were doing something unnatural. I ignored them, but one of them said something about Caressa about 'freezing her tits off.'" He glanced over at Martin, his expression flat. "I know. Not creative or even insulting, but she jumped on him and started hitting him with her bag."

Martin sighed. "I'm sorry. Humans can be real assholes sometimes."

"Yes, as can Andorians." Zhelen nodded thoughtfully and rubbed at the base of his antennae. "The human species doesn't hold a monopoly on, I believe you call it 'dick behavior?'"

"Yeah. I guess. What about Vulcans?"

The look Zhelen leveled at him was almost too serious. "Vulcans," he said, his voice low and solemn, "are the worst."

Martin stared at him, and after a minute, the corner of the Andorian's mouth twitched. Martin smiled. "Spock would disagree."

"He would be wrong." Zhelen's lips were pressed into a firm, hard line as he struggled to keep from smiling himself.

"He'd disagree with that, too. And he'd have a lot of very logical reasons why that he'd go on about at great length."

"Thereby proving my point." Zhelen finally gave up and grinned.

"Hey." Gunheim glared at them from where she sat on the other side of the room. "Keep it down," she hissed, her eyes cutting over to the girl sleeping on her shoulder.

"Sorry," Zhelen muttered.

"Yeah." Martin tried to look contrite but suspected he only managed to look annoyed.

Something Zhelen said kept coming back to him, and he was having trouble getting past it. "Do I do that a lot? Treat you like you don't know anything about humans or living on Earth?"

"Enough that it is no longer unanticipated."

Martin's head throbbed, and his jaw felt numb and heavy. "I'm only trying to help." His voice sounded thin and weak, even in his own head. Even he didn't believe what he'd said although he was sure it was the truth.

"On my planet, you are not judged by your intentions. You are judged by the consequences of your actions, as you should be well aware from second-year ethics." Zhelen paused. "One of the concessions I have made living among humans is to accept that sometimes, it is the thought that counts. Although Spock often questions the thought as well."

Martin snorted. "Great, so Spock thinks I'm an idiot, and you think that I think you're an idiot."

"Spock doesn't think you're an idiot. He thinks your thought processes lack precision and logic," said Zhelen. "I don't think you're an idiot, either. As I said, I make allowances for your humanity."

"Yeah, I appreciate it." Zhelen's words punched him hard in the gut, and the air rushed out of him in a single, forced breath. "So, you guys talk about this?"

"On occasion. Spock finds it more troublesome than I, but you share quarters, and he has been subjected to your 'help' on a more frequent basis."

"So on top of everything else, I'm a condescending asshole."

"Now that you are aware, you can correct the behavior."

"Yeah." Correct the behavior. To hear Zhelen talk, it was the easiest thing in the world, but… He'd just been trying to help. Make things easier. But it didn't matter.

Shit.

Perception could dictate the direction of a career. What Martin thought didn't matter. He added it to the seemingly endless list of things to accomplish before commissioning. "Yeah," he repeated with more conviction than he felt. "I probably owe Spock an apology."

Not that he'd been wrong, but the Vulcan was going to rise through the ranks fast. With a starting rank of Lieutenant, he already was. He'd better set about repairing any damage he'd done there, no matter how inadvertently or well-intentioned.

Sergeant Stoller rapped his knuckles against the wall, abruptly breaking Martin's train of thought, and lowered the security barrier. "All right, Starfleet. Your carriage awaits."

Zhelen blinked in confusion. "Why would the commander send a vehicle? The hotel is only a few minutes' walk."

"I think he just means she's here."

Gunheim nudged Solórzano who was on her feet before her eyes were fully open. "What's going on?" Her voice was thick with fatigue.

Gunheim stretched and held her hand out so the other girl could pull her to her feet. "Parker's here," she said, stifling a yawn herself. "I'd make a pumpkin joke, but it's already way past midnight."

She tripped out of the cell behind officer who'd come to escort them, Solórzano in tow, and into the corridor they'd come through when they'd first been brought in. Martin looked over at Zhelen, who shrugged, and they trailed after the girls down to the property room where they'd surrendered their personal effects.

When they caught up to the others, four lock boxes had materialized on the pad of the freight transporter in the middle of the room.

"Once you have your property, go out through that door." Their escort pointed to the other side of the room. "After you're checked out, you're free to leave." The officer retreated from the direction they'd just come from and sealed the door.

"At least Parker didn't come back to the lockup to see us in all our disgrace," said Solórzano, digging through her things.

"She's probably pissed," Gunheim offered.

"Or disappointed." Martin keyed the bio-lock on the box with his name on it and pulled his overcoat out from where he'd stuffed it hours earlier. The high-tech fabric was supposed to help keep the garment clean and looking unworn. It was apparently not meant to withstand hours in a crumpled heap crammed into a box. He should have folded it more carefully. The others still looked immaculate. At least his hat was none the worse for wear. He shrugged his coat on and checked his pockets for his comm and other personal effects.

"Oh, thank god." Gunheim was the first through the door, and her voice floated back to her teammates.

"What?" Martin asked from where he was still crowded up behind Zhelen.

"It's not Parker."

"What? Who?" But if it wasn't Parker, there was only one other person who could be waiting for them. "Shit."

Martin lingered back as Solórzano and Zhelen filed out through the room's single door, his feet too heavy for him to walk without shuffling. Maybe he might owe the Vulcan an apology, but he wasn't ready to deal with him. Not that he had a choice unless he wanted to stay in jail. Steeling himself, Martin firmed his shoulders and strode out of the property room with his head held high.

Spock stood at the reception desk near the front of the vestibule looking every inch the officer they were both supposed to be in a few short months, studying a PADD with an official looking shield molded into the back. He was sharp and pressed and alert, his spine rigid and his black-billed hat tucked under his elbow and held closely against his side, ready for a full inspection at any minute. A young, female officer Martin hadn't seen before stood on the other side of the counter and gawked up at him.

He could relate. Looking at Spock, Martin felt more trampled and dirty than if he'd spent the night laying in the gutter instead of an immaculately clean and modern, if somewhat ordinary, holding cell.

Gunheim and Solórzano had hurried through the glass exterior door and out to freedom before Martin had stepped out of the property room, and they stood across the street, huddled together in a patch of streetlight. Zhelen nodded at Spock and brushed by him as he headed towards the door to the outside, too.

Martin's instincts screamed at him to leave. That's what he should do, he knew. But Parker's not being there herself was acid eating away at his better judgment to ignore Spock and join Zhelen and the rest of the team out into the chill night air. To deal with whatever punishment Parker doled out without attitude or complaint and not attempt to mend fences with the Vulcan until he'd at least gotten a couple hours of sleep. And his skull wasn't on the verge of splitting wide open or his eyes burning their way through their sockets into his brain.

Too bad his better judgment clearly wasn't in charge at the moment. He stopped next to Spock, his feet unwilling to move a step further without his roommate. The Vulcan didn't seem to notice, only kept methodically working his way through the administrative red tape probably required to secure the team's release. Typical.

Martin blew out a harsh breath. The muscles in his thighs bunched and tensed, needing to move, to walk out of the station and head to the hotel, but his feet still refused to budge, and he settled for dancing back and forth on restless toes. But that only made things worse, and the warm relief that had blossomed in the pit of his stomach once he'd cleared the cell faded and churned.

Fine.

Before he had time to think, Martin fled, but he only made it three steps, less than halfway to the door and freedom before spinning around and stalking back to Spock.

"You're not Parker," Martin blurted, too close and too loud for even a Vulcan to ignore.

Spock's gaze slid over him briefly, not long enough to make out anything in his expression other than his usual flat stare. His roommate inscribed his signature at the bottom of the PADD in his firm, neat hand. "I am uncertain whether you are merely indulging in the human preoccupation with stating the obvious or demonstrating your mastery over the differences in species and genders."

Setting the PADD down and pushing it across the desktop, Spock intoned a quiet thank you to the officer on duty. The young woman hadn't stopped staring, at least not since Martin had walked in. She nodded dumbly and reached for the PADD. Fumbled it. Nearly dropped it, but that was something else Spock didn't notice because he seated his hat on his head with his usual maddening precision and strode towards the exit. His footsteps echoed against the concrete floor.

Cramming his own hat back on, Martin scrambled after him. "You're not funny," he huffed.

"It was not my intent to be humorous."

"Good. You weren't." Martin quickened his steps.

Spock peered over at him but didn't respond and didn't slow his pace. With his long stride, Martin struggled to keep up even though he wasn't that much shorter than his teammate.

Across the street from the station door, Solórzano, apparently still half asleep, leaned heavily on Gunheim, her eyes drooping shut while the other girl swayed a little under her weight. Zhelen paced distractedly around the perimeter of the puddle of light where the girls stood. He was barely visible, a wraith in the shadows and late-night fog that engulfed him nearly up to his knees, but Martin could feel the Andorian watching him trail behind Spock even if he couldn't see him. What did Zhelen think he was going to be able to do in the short time it took to leave the station and cross the road?

His brain twisted and buzz with the pressure to do better, to be better, to be less like himself and more like his brother, more like Spock, more like anyone other than himself. That he wasn't good enough for anyone or anything, and he was the only person who didn't know it. It was an old, stale fear he'd put away when he went to college that sometimes still managed to claw its way to the surface.

Stop. Just stop. Zhelen didn't expect him to have things smoothed over with Spock yet. He didn't. He didn't even know what had happened with him earlier. And he wasn't staring at Martin, wordlessly urging him to get on with it. He was probably just tired.

They were all tired.

"Finally," Gunheim huffed, more bluster than true belligerence, the second Spock stepped up onto the curb. "Can we please leave?"

"As I have completed the necessary tasks to finalize your release –"

"Whatever." Gunheim coaxed Solórzano upright, grabbed her hand, and stomped off down the street. The other girl blinked sleepily as she towed her along. "Let's go."

"Yasuko, wait."

"The sooner we get back to the hotel, the sooner we can sleep," she grumbled, sourness pinching her features when Solórzano pulled up short and dug in her heels. "Come on."

"I kno—," said Solórzano, a yawn that stretched her mouth wide cutting her off mid-word. "But you're going the wrong direction."

"No, I'm not."

Zhelen threw his arm around Gunheim's shoulders and propelled her down the street in the opposite direction than she'd originally headed. "This way, laggard." Solórzano followed them, chuckling, and slipped her arm through Gunheim's, and she and Zhelen led her down the street.

Martin turned to Spock, but the Vulcan had walked away. Already, he was only steps behind the rest of the group, forcing Martin to trot after him, but when he drew alongside, Spock gave no sign he'd even noticed Martin's presence. They walked without speaking until the end of the block and then the next one, the tense silence broken only by the shuffle of heavy footsteps and their teammates' hoarse whispers.

With every step, the quiet around them thickened and settled until it pressed around him, weighty and oppressive. Their earlier disagreement was an anomaly consuming the air around them until Martin struggled to draw a full breath. It might not be the ideal time, but maybe he should try to iron things out with Spock. Restoring any communication would only be harder the longer he left it, the way Martin was certain he'd be tempted to.

"Man, good thing she's not a navigator, huh?" asked Martin, gesturing at Gunheim's back.

Spock didn't so much as twitch, and his gaze remained fixed on some spot down the street Martin couldn't identify. Unwavering. Little more than a statue. Fine. He should have known he wouldn't make this easy on him.

"So, you never answered my question about Parker." There. It was a reasonable statement. Of course he'd want to know why Parker wasn't there. Besides, the more prepared he could be for whatever they were in for when they got back to the hotel, the better.

"You don't need to tell me," supplied Martin after a too-long stretch of silence. He might have to have the entire conversation by himself. Hell, it would probably be simpler than drawing Spock out. Martin didn't need the Vulcan's active participation to say what he needed. "I'm sure she's pretty heated. I mean, why else would she send you?"

He tried not to feel a little smug when Spock replied, his mouth compressed into a firm, tight line. The feeling faded as soon as the Vulcan spoke.

"As you made no previous inquiry with regards to the Commander, it is impossible to provide a response."

"You know what I mean," Martin spit out, but Spock had gone back to ignoring him. "I guess your being here means things with Uhura didn't work out."

If nothing else, the look Spock shot at him was definitely a reaction. The Vulcan's brows pulled together but the rest of his features remained still and didn't communicate any interpretable emotion. Not that Martin spent any time puzzling it out.

"That's rough. You were pretty into her, and she gave you every sign –"

"That is none of your concern."

"I wasn't going to ask what happened. I just…" His voice trailed off. Jesus, Spock was acting like a child.

"Look, I know you're pissed about what I said to Uhura earlier, and I shouldn't –"

"You are incorrect."

Without stopping, Martin closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Counted to three. It didn't help.

He was the one who'd had to deal with Spencer. He was the one who'd ended up in a street fight and, even if he hadn't known it at the time, defending Zhelen. Where was Spock then? Martin was the one who spent most of the night in jail. Not Spock. Spock left with the girl he had a thing for even if Martin doubted things had gone anywhere. And Martin was trying to apologize. There was a sudden tightening in his chest, and his heart thundered.

"Oh, that's right. It's impossible to piss you off because Vulcans don't have emotions."

Spock came to an abrupt halt. "I merely point out your logic in this matter is flawed."

After scampering behind the Vulcan ever since leaving the police station, Martin couldn't slow his pace quickly enough to keep tracking him. He skidded to a stop half a dozen steps beyond where Spock stood, turned, and pounded back to him.

"Flawed—"

"Your conclusion I took offense at your unfounded accusations against Ny—" Spock broke off and took a quick breath before continuing, "—Ms. Uhura is predicated on the assumption I value your opinion. I assure you that is not the case."

"And here I thought Vulcans couldn't lie."

"We cannot."

"Oh please. Steam was practically coming out of your ears. "

"Are you—?"

"Gentlemen." Zhelen's voice floated over Martin's shoulder, breaking into the conversation. "As entertaining as watching the two of you rip into one another would be, maybe you should save this…discussion until we have returned to the hotel? I, for one, would prefer to avoid any further encounters with local law enforcement."

Spock's attention snapped towards Zhelen, and Martin flinched at the ice cold hand clapping him on the back. He hadn't noticed the Andorian approach, he'd been so intent on sniping at Spock. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and an embarrassed flush crept up his neck and heated his face. What happened? He was supposed to be apologizing to the Vulcan. Instead, he'd been trying to find a way to make Spock responsible for his crappy night.

He stepped back and swallowed the bitter ire coating his tongue. "Yeah, sorry." He glanced up at Spock. "We can pick this up later."

"There is nothing further to discuss." Spock's tone was ice, and the look he leveled at Martin sent a cold shiver racing along his spine. The Vulcan stepped stiffly around him and strode towards where Solórzano and Gunheim stood a few feet further down the street, staring. Solórzano gaped, more awake and alert than she'd been in hours. Gunheim just looked done, her irritation written in clear block letters across her face. When Spock passed them, she turned and followed, dragging Solórzano along with her.

Martin waited without moving until they reached next corner before he snuck a glanced at Zhelen. The Andorian watched him, preternaturally unconcerned in a way that would have rivaled Spock on any normal day. "We discussed this. I'd thought you had a breakthrough."

"I was trying to apologize."

"Clearly, you need to work on your technique."

"Maybe." Martin shrugged, hoping the movement would break down some of the tension running across his back. "I'll try again after I've gotten some sleep."

Zhelen's hand tightened on his shoulder for a second before giving him a not-quite-friendly shove towards the hotel. "Maybe wait until after the next round. Spock is always in a better mood following intellectual exertion."

Martin nodded and started towards the hotel again. "Good call."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Let me say up front, I know this isn't how jail works in Britain. I can't even vouch for it being this way in the states. I mean, I'm pretty sure it's not, but I've never been arrested, so I have no first-hand experience.
> 
> Thank you all for your patience and thank you to everyone who kept reading and commenting during my unexpected hiatus. I wish there'd been some way to let everyone know I hadn't abandoned this. In fact, except for a brief period in January when I just had to get Christmas out of my system, I worked on this multiple times a week for nearly the entire time. Between the holidays and work and life getting out of hand, sometimes I was working on this one sentence at a time. But things have finally calmed down, and I'm hopefully back to somewhat regular updating. I can't promise there won't be a gap here and there, but I'm super-energized and motivated to finally get this finished.
> 
> What I can promise is the next chapter is centered on Nyota. And the chapter after that, and the chapter after that, and the one after that. I'm very excited to see what everybody thinks.
> 
> So, Martin. I've said all along I'm not going to put Martin on some kind of redemption arc, and I hope that's playing out. I mean, he gets that he really went wrong, but even if he gets a glimmer of how he messed up, he's essentially the same person as when he started, and he reverts to form under stress. Despite the fact that he wants to be seen as a good guy (not be a good guy, be seen as one), he doesn't get that just going through the motions isn't good enough. I may come back to him much further down the road and see if he ever pulled his head out, but I don't know. I think it's far more interesting for someone to have ambition without a way of making it come to fruition. At least if they're a character in a story.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter and that everyone is having a wonderful spring, and for those of you gearing up for finals, good luck!


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